


These Roses Sing

by K_K_TiBal, whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, First Kiss, Florist Castiel, Florist Dean, Flowers, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Not Canon Compliant, Selectively Mute Dean, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Witch Castiel, Witch Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_K_TiBal/pseuds/K_K_TiBal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: Dean and Castiel have absolutely no reason to meet. Castiel is the stepson of the mayor, the second son of the most important family in the city. Dean, meanwhile, has just started learning about mechanics from his father. They belong to different worlds - but when chance brings Castiel into Dean's father's workshop, they meet, with incredible consequences. All it takes is a single flower - a rose - to awaken a power within them that they don't know how to understand or control: they can cast spells on anyone, absolutely anyone, with the gift of a flower.But can they learn how to be brave, how to take the gift that's within them and use it well - and can they find their way back to each other?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perdizzion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdizzion/gifts).



> this fic is a birthday gift for [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com)!!
> 
> Dearest castihalo, a.k.a. perdizzion, a.k.a. Citra, a.k.a. Cheetah, a.k.a. City, a.k.a. Lampy, I hope very much that you enjoy this fic, and that the flowers we sent you make complete sense now. A huge HAPPY BIRTHDAY to you, my other friend!! In so many ways, you are the matahari to my bintik-bintik di langit. Thank you so much for being truly and completely fantastic. -whelvenwings
> 
> CITRA!!!! You are really one of a kind and absolutely spectacular. This year of knowing you has been a fucking pleasure and I've loved every minute of it. I know that this is very quintessentially me but you are Amazing™. And a delight. I HOPE THAT YOU LIKE SOME MORE WITCH!CAS WITH SOME WITCH!DEAN. Here's to another great year for you!!! - K_K_TiBal
> 
> Words from Dean's Point of View by [thebloggerbloggerfun](http://thebloggerbloggerfun.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Words from Castiel's Point of View by [whelvenwings](http://whelvenwings.tumblr.com)!

 

“Dean, I think it’s time for you to start learning about cars.”

Dean looked up from the breakfast that he’d been shoveling into his mouth haphazardly and frowned at his dad in confusion.

John nodded his head as if he’d made up his mind. “I started learning around ten years old too, you know. It’s about time you start learning how to be a man.”

Dean quickly swallowed his eggs, only slightly choking on the food as he felt a slight tendril of panic wind around his throat. Was he going to try and make him talk to people again? So far he hadn’t mentioned other people so it didn’t sound too bad. At least cars wouldn’t care if he talked to them or not.

Dean had been watching his father work magic on cars for as long as he could remember and he was convinced that he could fix anything with ease. Every once in awhile the Impala would start billowing out black smoke and his dad would just pull over and flip the hood up, do something to the inside, and the car would be as good as new. The few times that he’d gone to the shop with him he’d witnessed his dad smiling to customers as they talked in a way that Dean knew he could never do.

At least he’d get to have a Saturday that wasn’t spent stuck in the house, watching after Sam -

Dean glancing over at his brother as he was playing with his cereal before looking back over at his dad again.

“We’ll drop him off at Ellen’s for today and I can start showing you around the shop.” John said, easily translating Dean’s body language.

John dumped his empty dishes in the sink as Dean finished his food as fast as possible. His dad hadn’t let him come visit him at the shop since. . . well, it had been a while.

“Finish up and get in the car, boys.” John said, taking his keys from where they’d been hanging on the wall.

The two of them all but abandoned their plates as they followed their dad out the door and into their Impala.

*

Dean kicked his legs back and forth from on top of the large black chairs in the main lobby of his dad’s mechanic shop, staring at the floor as the sounds of the clanging of metal and whirring of the auto lift.

Today had apparently been uncharacteristically busy for the shop so, instead of showing Dean the ropes as promised, he’d been more or less shunted to the side in the lobby with Billie as the designated babysitter.

“So how old are you, Dean?”

Dean looked up as Billie smiled at him from over the counter and hesitated before holding up ten fingers and quickly looked away again.

“ _Ten?_ Wow, you’re getting so _old_.”

Dean hid a small smile as he heard her typing on the other side of the front desk. “So are you liking school alright?”

Dean nodded slowly, clasping his hands in his lap, staring at the oil stain that had been added to his shirt while his dad had been showing him around a particularly greasy car before it got busy.

“Anything in particular?”

Dean shook his head.

“Your dad told me you’re not much of a talker.”

Dean looked up, waiting to see Billie frown at him in disappointment -  something he really didn’t want because ,so far, he liked Billie - and was pleasantly surprised to see her still smiling at him.

“That’s okay, you know,” Billie took a mint from the bowl set on the table and tossed one to him. “When I was your age my dad was in a car accident. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone after that for a long time and no one knew why.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know why either.”

Dean ducked his head again, cupping the mint in his hands as he listened.

“You’ll talk when you’re ready, okay?” She lifted her waves of dark curls into a bun on her head as she looked back at her computer screen.

The sound of voices from the doorway that lead into the lobby caused Dean to snap out of his thoughts and scurry behind the front desk and duck down into Billie’s leg space. If people came in they might try and talk to him. Billie was safe.

Billie barely looked at him as he ducked underneath the desk when the sound of the door opened and the voices became clear.

“Well it’s not _my_ fault that it’s making the awful noise,” Dean heard a low male-voice say, “Maybe one of _them_ touched something they weren’t supposed to, or -”

“ _Or -”_ a female voice interrupted, “It’s a car and cars just break down sometimes. Honestly, Richard, it’s no one’s _fault_.”

Dean huddled closer to Billie as he heard the conversation continue from the other side of the front desk.

“Hello,” Billie sounded like she was trying her best to be cheerful. “What can we do for you today?”

The male voice piped up again, this time with an air of importance. “Yes, hello. I’m Dick Roman. You probably know me already so I hope I don't have to stress how urgent it is that my car is fixed soon. It’s making an awful rattling noise and there’s some smoke coming out of the front end.”

Dean grimaced at the arrogant tone to his voice and while he felt like he’d heard the name before, he couldn’t quite place the voice to a face. Not without revealing his hiding spot.

“Of course, Mayor Roman.” Dean looked up to see Billie handing him a clipboard with some paperwork on it. “Just fill this out real quick and pull your car into the shop and John will go ahead and take a look at it.”

There was a long, drawn-out sigh that made Dean cringe inwardly before the sound of quick scribbles against paper was heard.

“There. Thank you very much.”

The sound of footsteps began to fade enough for Dean to risk peeking his head out from behind the desk and saw four figures walk back out the way they came. There was a tall man with dirty blond hair that Dean assumed was the deep voice that had sounded important, and a woman with her own hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head. Trailing behind them were two boys, one a few inches taller than the other, though Dean couldn’t see much else with their backs turned to him.

The door shut behind the family and Dean heard Billie sigh.

“Well, the mayor sure seems like an upstanding guy.” Billie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

She ducked her head down and motioned for Dean to come out of his hiding place. “Don’t worry. They’re gone. Here,” she pulled out a paper cup from one of the desk drawers and walked over to the drinking fountain in the corner of the room, filling it halfway and kneeling down to hand it to him under the desk. “Last I checked, your mom’s flower was looking a little dry . Do you want to go give it something to drink?”

Dean nodded slowly and accepted the offered cup of water, standing up and looking over at the single white rose in a plant pot that he could barely see on the main table inside the interior of the garage. The flower came from a nearly overgrown rosebush that his mom had planted with extra care to the side of their small home. His dad would snip one off for the garage and place it in the pot, repeating the process any time the flower wilted and died.

He’d witnessed his father during this process many times, but this was the first time he’d actually seen the pot in the shop.

The white flower was almost serene in the stark contrast of the grungy garage, definitely out of place but clearly holding significance. Dean carefully walked into the garage, holding the paper cup carefully so as not to spill anything, and made his way over to the table that held the rose. He weaved through the different mechanics with ease, a few of them giving a friendly smile as he passed, and stopped in front of the rose.

This one must have been fresh, picked either today or yesterday, seeing as there were no dark spots forming on the petals that he could see and it hadn’t yet hunched over from lack of proper care.

“Here you go,” Dean whispered affectionately, his voice a little hoarse from disuse, and poured a small stream of water into the pot for the rose to drink, fighting the urge to reach out and touch it. Even _he_ knew that touching the petals of flowers would make it die faster, and that was _not_ a fate he wanted for his mother’s rose. Dean smiled as the rose almost seemed to glow in thanks.  

The rose was special.

“Who’s in charge, here?”

Dean jumped at the sound of the same deep voice he’d heard in the lobby permeating through the garage. He looked over to see that a sleek, black car with grey smoke streaming from under the hood had pulled into the garage opening without him noticing, and the family from before was piling out.

As quietly as he could, Dean tucked himself into the a corner of the garage a few feet away from the rose and watched as his dad wiped his hands on a greasy cloth and stepped towards the family.

“I am. John Winchester. How are you, Mayor?” He held out his hand.

“Not having the best of days, that’s for sure.” Mayor Roman swept his gaze around the room in what looked like an attempt to ignore the offered hand, before shooting him a smile. “I was hoping that I could get my car looked at. I’m sure you’re a very busy man but it’s necessary that it’s done as fast as possible.”

Dean saw his dad’s posture shift a little and a slight frown etched into his features.

“Well, I suppose I could make some room,” John glanced around him at the other mechanics that all were hunched either over or under someone’s car. “Lemme take a quick look.”

Dean fiddled with the, now empty, paper cup that Billie had given him as his dad pulled the hood up on the car and waved the smoke away from his face.

Mayor Roman sure didn’t seem very nice.

Dean busied himself by thinking of all of the different things he could do to help the flower live longer. Maybe he could give it some kind of special plant food or maybe a better pot. He frowned and tapped his fingers against his chin. What would his mom do?

A slight movement caught his eye that caused Dean to slink back a little. The smaller of the two boys was slowly making his way forward towards the table, an awestruck look on his face.

Dean tilted his head as he studied the other boy.

They looked like they were most likely around the same age, but they were very different in looks. Blue eyes were framed with neatly combed dark hair and he had an air about him that made Dean think he’d never had any kind of dirt on him in his life.

Dean stood still as the boy got closer, hoping that he hadn’t been seen and that he wasn’t coming to talk to him.

But the boy wasn’t looking at him.

With a small jolt of realization, Dean quickly figured out that the boy was walking towards his mom’s white rose.

If the boy hadn’t noticed him, Dean didn’t want to make any sort of fuss that might drive his attention over to Dean instead, so instead of saying something, he just watched in silence. He didn’t look like he was going to hurt the flower, anyway.

The boy stopped when he got within a few inches of the table, staring at the flower more intently than Dean was comfortable with.

An uneasy feeling settled in Dean’s stomach the more he watched the boy watch the flower, a feeling that was quickly turning into a need to protect the flower, if worse came to worst.

There was a moment of panic as the boy reached his hand towards the rose -

“Castiel!”

Both Dean and the boy turned whipped their heads to see the source of the voice and Dean was happy to see that it was the older woman of the family, with a hand on her hip.

“Don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” she said with a purse to her lips. “I raised you better than that.”

 _Yes._ Dean thought, relieved to see the boy - Castiel - drawing his hand back, _Don’t touch it. It’s not yours._

“But I -” Castiel’s face fell as Dean watched, and he immediately felt a little guilty for assuming he was going to be mean to his mom’s rose.

“Don’t talk back, Castiel.”

Mayor Roman had turned around to watch the scolding and raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s not yours. Show some respect to these people, will you?”

Dean narrowed his eyes at the Mayor, feeling the hypocrisy ooze from his words. It was rich talk from someone that seemed to think he was better than everyone else that he came into contact with. No, Dean didn’t like that man one bit.

It almost made him feel bad for Castiel as he drew his hand back completely and shove it in his pocket with one last longing look at the beautiful white rose.

Almost.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel wanted that flower.

At first it had just been a casual whim to walk over to the plant pot - it was so strange and out of place to see the beautiful white rose sitting there in the car shop, petals all creamy and clean as milk, when the rest of the place was greasy and speckled over with oil and dust. When Naomi told him off for trying to go and touch it, Castiel hadn’t minded so much. But when Dick Roman added his own greasy voice in agreement - that was the moment that Castiel’s sights had been firmly set on that rose.

Dick Roman might be mayor of the city - a fact of which he wasn’t afraid to remind Castiel, usually every day - but he had no right to be telling Castiel what he could and couldn’t do. Did Dick really think that just because he’d married Naomi, he could start giving orders just as though he were really Castiel’s father? Castiel gritted his teeth together.

“Don’t,” Michael said, under his breath. Castiel glanced up at his older brother, who was standing with his jaw clenched as Dick kept talking to the car shop owner - John, Castiel thought his name had been.

“What?” Castiel murmured back. Naomi cast him a sharp glance.

“Don’t make a scene,” Michael said. “Father’s trying to -”

“He’s  _ not  _ our father.”

“He is in public,” Michael muttered. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll act like it.”

Castiel crossed his arms and tried not to sulk too obviously. Michael was probably right. Making Dick Roman lose face wasn’t something that anyone could get away with, not even his stepson; he’d be grounded in his room -  _ again.  _ It wasn’t worth it for a flower.

Castiel cast another longing look at it. It was  _ so  _ beautiful. White as snow, and the petals would be so soft to touch. There had to be more than fifteen blooms on it, at least. What an oddity, Castiel thought to himself. What a strange thing - or, perhaps, a perfectly normal thing that wasn’t quite where it belonged. 

He wished he could walk over and tell the rose that it wasn’t alone in that.

Dick and John were still droning on about the car, and Naomi was watching them with a tight-lipped expression. Michael, meanwhile, was looking over the car shop - he wore an expression that looked flat, but Castiel knew him well enough to see the disdain round the corners of his mouth. The car shop clearly was not meeting his very high standards. Castiel folded his hands together and bit his lip, casting a glance over the place himself. The car shop was dirty, yes, but it was busy and warm and loud. And John seemed nice, patiently listening to his stepfather describing how important it was that the car was fixed  _ quickly  _ for the fourth time. Castiel actually quite liked it here. There was a big truck that he could see with its hood up, and he wanted to go and take a look inside it. And there was a big black car, glossy with a sheen that had obviously been put there with effort and love, and Castiel wanted to go and admire it. And there was the rose, of course. And -

And in the corner, tucked almost out of sight, there was a  _ boy. _

They locked eyes, and Castiel didn’t look away. The boy looked around Castiel’s own age - perhaps a little older, or maybe he was just tall. And he had light brown hair, and wide eyes, and an expression that was confusing - curious, maybe, or was it defensive? He definitely wasn’t smiling. He was standing close to the rose, his body angled towards it just as Castiel’s was, as though the three of them - the boy, Castiel, and the rose - were in some kind of three-person stand-off. 

The boy narrowed his eyes, and glanced at the rose, and then back to Castiel.

_ What do you want with my rose,  _ Castiel guessed that meant. He looked quickly up at Naomi - she hadn’t noticed the boy, still focusing on the conversation between John and her husband.

Castiel raised his shoulders slightly, and looked at the rose again, with longing on his face. And then - catching the boy’s eye quickly to make sure he was still watching - Castiel tilted his head in the direction of his stepfather, and narrowed his own eyes. 

_ It’s beautiful,  _ Castiel was trying to say.  _ Also, my stepfather said not to touch it. _

The boy’s expression lifted ever so slightly. He glanced over at Dick, too, and then rolled his eyes dramatically. Castiel pressed his lips together so that he wouldn’t smile and give their little conversation away.

The boy threw another look at the adults, and then put his hands on his hips in a grown-up way and mimed saying  _ blah, blah, blah,  _ big and exaggerated. Castiel let out a tiny little snort of laughter and quickly scuffed his shoe over the floor to make a noise that would cover it. When he looked back up, the boy was grinning at him; Castiel smiled back. He could feel the hostility between them receding. Looking at his clothes for the first time, Castiel realised that the boy must have already spent some time in the car shop that day - he had a big oil stain on his t-shirt which had a big, strange logo on it. Castiel squinted at it. It looked like a wide, dark, open oval mouth with three white teeth at the top and four at the bottom. Maybe it was for some kind of band or television program that Castiel himself had never heard of - and there were plenty of those, since his mother and stepfather insisted on keeping him away from televisions and the internet.  _ You’ve got enough ideas as it is,  _ Naomi had said, when Castiel had once asked why.

Castiel wasn’t sure what the ideas were that he had - nor what was so wrong about having them - but he supposed she had to be right. Naomi usually knew what was best for him. It was only that his stepfather agreed with her, and Dick Roman  _ never  _ knew what was best for Castiel - how could he? They barely knew each other - and it was making him confused that the two of them agreed on so much.

The boy in the car shop was looking at him with raised eyebrows, and Castiel’s attention snapped back to the moment. The boy jerked his head to his left, towards the rose. Castiel frowned, not understanding, and the boy looked frustrated for a moment before angling himself towards the rose a little more, and making a little hand gesture - a curling of his fingers. Castiel’s eyes widened. The boy was saying that he should defy his mother and stepfather’s orders, and go over and see the rose.

He wanted to do it. He stared at it, looking at the white, beautiful petals, the way that they swirled out from the centre in unique, imperfect ripples. He wondered if it had a good scent. And the boy said he could…

“Your boy’s still interested in that rose, then,” said a grown-up voice that broke into Castiel’s thoughts, making him jump to attention. John, the car shop owner, was looking over at him with a warm expression. Castiel’s stepfather’s gaze soon followed, though it was distinctively icier.

“You mustn’t touch anything, Castiel,” he said, with a camera-ready smile that didn’t take the edge off his cool gaze.

“I wasn’t,” Castiel said, truthfully, and more than a little sullenly. “I was just looking at it.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it,” John said. When Castiel nodded enthusiastically, he seemed moved to continue. “It’s a cutting. We take ‘em every year and put ‘em in pots around the garage to lighten up the place. The big rosebush is at home… last thing my late wife planted, before - before we lost her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dick Roman said, his voice dripping with synthetic sympathy. Castiel glared at him, and then looked over at the boy who’d been standing beside the rose; he was looking a little like a rabbit in the headlights. John, who was obviously looking for some way to change the subject, reached out a hand towards him and called him over by name.

“Dean,” he said. “Come here, son. You’ll make the other kids jealous, standing that close to Mary Junior.” Dean - as Castiel now knew the boy’s name to be - walked over to his father, his shoulders thin and a little hunched, looking awkward. He had none of the spark or confidence about him that Castiel had glimpsed just moments before, when they’d been laughing at the grown-ups together.

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” Castiel’s stepfather said, never one to miss an opportunity for a photo-worthy moment, even if there weren’t any other political figures standing nearby to be impressed. He held out his gold-beringed hand, and flashed a smile.

_ Don’t fall for it,  _ Castiel thought, watching the little scene unfold with gritted teeth. Somehow, his stepfather had a knack of making people think he was wonderful and friendly; it annoyed Castiel in general - but more than anything, at that moment, he didn’t want Dean to be taken in by the oily charm.

Dean didn’t hold out his hand, and didn’t reply. Dick’s smile slipped, just a single notch, but enough for Castiel to know that a blow had fallen. John laughed awkwardly, and clapped his son on the shoulder.

“He don’t say much,” he said, obviously uncomfortable. “Doesn’t speak at all, really, since we lost my wife. Don’t take it personally, sir.” The way his hand rested on Dean’s shoulder looked too tight - a lot too tight, and strained. Castiel knew that grasp, and suddenly his opinion of John went downhill. Dean looked over and met Castiel’s eyes, and there passed between them a moment of complete understanding.

“Poor thing,” Dick Roman said unconvincingly, and turned abruptly away. “The cab should be outside by now.”

“Come on, Castiel, Michael,” Naomi said, as Dick caught her eyes.

“Have my car driven to me when it’s ready, will you?” he threw back over his shoulder towards John, as he began to make his way back towards the lobby. “Don’t let it be long, I can’t turn up to the Gala Opening on Monday in a  _ cab _ .”

Michael followed him out of the garage, walking at his usual soft sauntering pace. Naomi held out her hand for Castiel to hold, and he slowly and unwillingly complied.

“Mom,” he said quietly, still looking at Dean - at that hand on his shoulder. “Can’t we…”

“If this is about the rose again,” Naomi said, “then I’ll send someone out to buy you one just like it when we’re home. Come on, now.”

She tugged on Castiel’s hand, and began to lead him away. Castiel kept his eyes on Dean all the way out through the glass door, until he lost sight of him out in the lobby; he felt his heart hammering against his ribs, a little desperately. He wanted to do -  _ something,  _ somehow - but Naomi was so much stronger than him, she’d never let him get away…

Castiel realised, with a little fierce beat of his heart, that he wished Naomi would  _ let go  _ of him, and stop telling him what to do. She was no different than his stepfather, sometimes. The thought was new and frightening.

They pushed out through the main door of the car shop and headed out towards the cab that Dick and Michael were already getting into, Naomi’s clasp on his hand tight - but she stopped when she heard the sounds of quick footsteps behind them. Castiel twisted, managing to wrest his hand from her grip in her surprise - and came face to face with Dean, standing right behind him.

For a moment, they only stared at each other. Naomi was still, seemingly struck into inertia by Dean’s unexpected appearance.

“Um. Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. 

Dean jerked his head and smiled tightly in response, and then glanced towards Naomi. 

“Um…” Castiel began. “Mom, you can wait in the car. I’m just here so you can see me, right? I promise not to run off or anything, I just want to talk to Dean.”

His chances of success seemed minimal, but he wanted to try, though Naomi’s face looked forbidding - but then Castiel’s stepfather banged the heel of his hand against the glass of the cab’s window, and yelled - loudly enough to be audible through the closed door - 

“What is going  _ on _ ? I have a meeting in  _ forty  _ minutes!”

“Richard, darling -”

Naomi immediately stepped over towards the car, wearing her pacifying expression; Castiel turned back to Dean, wanting to seize their moment of relative privacy.

“Are you alright?” Castiel said, though he had no idea what he would do if Dean said no.  _ Something,  _ somehow.

Dean nodded, and then shrugged. Castiel thought he understood. Not bad, but not good. He felt the same, most days.

There was an awkward pause. Dean was standing with his hands strangely held behind his back, a slight pinkness to his cheeks that Castiel thought hadn’t been there before. Dean blinked, and Castiel blinked back. He wasn’t entirely sure how to have a conversation with someone who didn’t speak.

He frowned, and tried to think of something to say.

“I like your shirt,” he tried. Behind him, he could hear his mother making consoling noises, trying to calm his stepfather down. He didn’t have long. “The design is very unusual. What is it? A mouth?”

Dean simply stared at him, as though he’d gone mad.

“Sorry,” Castiel said. “I don’t get to see a lot of television. If it’s a logo from a band or something, then I probably don’t know them.”

Dean’s expression of shock intensified.

“I wish I did,” Castiel stated. “If that helps.”

And at that Dean’s whole face seemed to shift, softening and easing. It was as though Castiel had said something sweet, or touching, rather than plainly stating a fact. After a moment’s pause, Dean brought his right hand out from behind his back - and in it, stem pinched between his fingertips, was a single, whorled, white rose. Castiel’s breath caught.

“Dean,” he managed. “Did you - is it - for me?”

Dean nodded, shrugging his shoulders as though it wasn’t a big deal.

“But your father said that it was your mother’s plant - and -”

Behind them, there were the sounds of the argument coming to a close. Castiel stared into Dean’s eyes, feeling the connection between them - wishing they could stay together somehow, and get away from tight hands on shoulders and pursed lips and shouting - 

Dean moved the rose slightly closer to Castiel, and raised his eyebrows. Castiel swallowed. If he took it, then soon after, he’d have to turn away and get into the cab and drive back to his house. He wished incredibly hard that he could just stay in this moment, right here, with Dean holding out the flower and Castiel about to take it.

It couldn’t last. He had to accept the flower, and then go home.

Castiel reached up, and took hold of the stem - making sure to aim for a place that he could see was free of thorns. His fingers closed around the narrow, firm stalk.

And immediately, he felt the sensation in his fingers - a chasing, electric feeling, like cool fire spreading up the length of his hand. He gasped and almost dropped the rose, thinking that he’d managed to accidentally prick his finger and draw blood after all - but on his hand was no red, no sign of any damage. And the sensation was spreading up his whole arm, across his chest, and settling in his heart…

Where it rested, soft and clean and cool as the petals of the white rose, slowing Castiel’s still-frantic heartbeat. 

Confused, but not afraid, Castiel let out a sigh. His shoulders relaxed. He looked up at Dean, who was watching him with a slight frown of confusion on his face. Both of them knew that something had happened, something strange - Castiel could tell from Dean’s expression. He didn’t know how, but for some reason - and it was stronger when he looked at Dean - Castiel was pleasantly awash in a feeling of happiness that was hard to name, but which seemed to be best summed up by saying to Dean,  _ it was nice to meet you. _

“It was nice to meet you,” Castiel said aloud. The flower-feeling in his chest agreed. It was as though all of the worries in his mind had been briefly hushed, so that just for a moment, he could focus on the good thing that he was feeling: meeting Dean, and liking him.

“Come on, Castiel,” Naomi said, turning back to him impatiently. “Enough.”

Time was up. Castiel kept his eyes on Dean’s as his worries started to wake up again - and the flower-feeling held a little longer, soft and gentle and calming.  _ Magic _ , Castiel thought.  _ This is magic. Good magic. _

“Say goodbye, Castiel, come on now.”

“Goodbye,” Castiel said, and it wasn’t enough. “I hope we meet again.” Dean’s eyes spoke volumes in return, volumes that Castiel could not understand.

Naomi’s sudden grasp on Castiel’s shoulder was a tight, strained pincer of concern. Castiel felt himself being pulled away, and he kept his eyes on Dean, trying to drink him in - the tall, freckled, green-eyed boy who wouldn’t speak.

Just as Naomi was hustling him into the cab, Dean opened his mouth.

“Batman,” he said. Castiel stared at him, not understanding. Dean pointed to the logo on his t-shirt. “It’s a bat. For Batman.”

Castiel didn’t understand what Dean was saying - only knew that he liked the sound of Dean’s voice. He wanted to reply, but Naomi stowed him into the car like a parcel, and slammed the door shut.

“Drive,” Dick said tersely to the driver, and they sped away from the kerb. Castiel twisted in his seat. He watched Dean’s figure, standing immobile on the sidewalk, until he was out of sight. His family argued - in quiet, public-polite voices - around him, but Castiel paid them no attention. 

Dean didn’t move, only watched after the cab as it drove away and eventually turned a corner.

After a little longer of fruitlessly looking back, Castiel turned to sit facing forwards, and twisted the white rose in his hands. He was still aware of the flower-feeling, easing his heart as though he were standing in a bright, white ray of sunlight that hushed away the dark, if only for a little time.

_ Magic,  _ Castiel thought, and remembered Dean’s face, his expressions, his voice. The flower-feeling flared, and grew a little stronger. Castiel nodded to himself.

_ Magic. Good magic. _


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stared at his hands for the hundredth time that night, waiting for the same warm and tingly feeling to rush back into them that he’d felt earlier. 

It had been unlike anything he’d felt before, and he longed for the comfort that had enveloped him as he’d clung to his mother’s flower.  It had been a feeling that he’d wanted to selfishly hang on to, even after he’d made the decision to give Castiel the flower - it had materialized the moment he’d touched it with that intent. The sensation had crawled up his fingertips and run through his arm and into his chest. 

It was warm. 

It was safe. 

It was home. 

Dean picked at the grass in front of him as the sun set slowly behind his house, causing long shadows to crawl up the street in front of him. 

Castiel had felt it too. Dean could tell. 

The feeling had made him pause, but he’d promised himself he would give the boy the flower and the moment Castiel had touched it, Dean had watched as the other boy had gasped - and for a moment Dean had been afraid that he was going to drop the flower, right before Castiel had gripped it tightly. 

The split second where the two of them were both touching the rose had been electric, though not quite as bad as the time Dean had stuck a fork in the electrical socket. That had hurt. This had been -  this had been  _ exciting _ . 

And then the moment he’d let go, the feeling had left, draining from his hands as the flower took it from him as quickly as it had been gifted. Dean had almost felt sad at the sudden absence, but the look on Castiel’s face had made it all worth it. 

Dean might not have been able to feel it, but Castiel could, and it made him want to give out hundreds of white roses.

At that thought, Dean looked over at the white rosebush that grew out front near their porch. The urge to pick another was tempting, but he knew that the only person allowed to touch the bush was his dad, and he wasn’t about to waste one of the precious buds on Dean’s idle curiosity. 

His mother’s flowers were special, that was for sure. 

But could others be special, too?

Dean chewed on his lower lip and studied his small yard. They didn’t have much of a garden anymore. The rose bush was the last surviving thing that his mom had planted and so there weren’t many flower options for him to choose from. 

However, looking around, Dean spotted bright yellow dandelions a few feet away that were starkly visible against the green grass and crawled over to them, studying them intently. 

He’d always viewed them as flowers even though his mom had told him many times they were actually weeds that grew in their grass. A weed could also be a flower, right?

Dean reached out and plucked the biggest flower he could see out of the small bundle, brought it close to his face, and waited. 

There wasn’t anything as electric or as intense as the rose had felt but . . . there was something. Dean screwed up his face and closed his eyes as he focused on the tips of his fingers, but the feeling wasn’t there this time. Instead, he could feel something small warm in his chest, right next to his heart, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. 

He felt . . . hopeful? 

Like he could do anything.

Dean pursed his lips and tried to imagine giving this flower to Castiel instead of the white rose. 

The feeling of anxiety that was usually so nearby whenever he thought about interacting with someone was soothed to a small hum somewhere in the back of his mind and with a little effort, he could easily imagine himself sitting down and talking to Castiel. 

_ Talking _ . 

Sure, he had been able to squeak out a few words to him before, but he hadn’t known who Batman was and that was an atrocity that he couldn’t have let slip idly by. But he felt as though he  _ could  _ say more. He could picture it.

Dean smiled at the fabricated memory and brought the dandelion close to his chest with a small sigh. Castiel had seemed really nice. 

His dad had told him that the family that had come into the shop had been very important to the city and it was really important that he get the man’s car fixed as soon as possible, even if he had been mean. But maybe that meant Dean would get to see Castiel again, though his dad was probably going to get it fixed on a school day when Dean wouldn’t be able to be in the garage. 

Just his luck. 

Dean finally stood up as the sun completely set behind him and the night started to creep into the neighborhood. Sam had already been put to sleep an hour ago, so Dean snuck inside quietly, knowing that it was soon going to be his bedtime as well. 

Tiptoeing down the hallway, Dean gripped the flower lightly so he wouldn’t crush it and headed into the kitchen to get a glass of water that he could set it in. 

Instead of the empty kitchen that he’d been expecting, he found his dad hunched over the table, his shoulders shaking, with a bottle of beer in one hand, and a small, white rosebud in the other.

Dean wanted to say something to get his attention, but this seemed like something his dad wouldn’t want him to see. 

As he tried to back up back into the hallway, a floorboard squeaked and his dad looked up, quickly taking his hand off the beer bottle and wiping at his eyes. 

“Dean,” John’s voice was gruff and raspy and he attempted to clear his throat. “Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”

Dean nodded slowly and immediately stepped backwards, ready to implicitly listen to the implied order. It wasn’t often that he saw his dad crying, and had been something new only this past year, but it still made his heart hurt - next to the bundle of comfort that now existed in his chest, thanks to the dandelion. 

What if - 

Could he do it again? 

If he’d been able to give Castiel the white rose and have him feel the same thing, maybe he could give his dad the same feeling of hope and confidence if he gave him the flower! 

Dean quietly shuffled forward as he dad wiped his nose on a shirt sleeve and tucked the rose back into a vase with a deep, calming breath that didn’t seem to be doing much to stop the tears, though he seemed to be making a valiant attempt at it. 

John glanced up at him with slightly puffy eyes and turned away, gripping at the bottle in his hand. “Dean. Bed. Now.” 

Dean swallowed and moved to the other side of the table next to his dad, looking up at him with a concerned look on his face. 

John turned his face again and scowled. 

“I don’t know what you want if you don’t use your words, Dean,” he grumbled and took a swig of beer. “I heard you talking to that kid, today, you know.”

Dean pressed his lips together and gripped the flower tightly in his fist. 

“So, you’ll talk to some strange kid but not to your own father?” John dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his eyes. “Why won’t you talk to  _ me? _ ” 

Guilt wormed its way into Dean’s chest and threatened to smother the ball of warmth that Dean was holding onto, but he managed to fend it off for the time being. 

Dean looked down at the dandelion and up at his father before tapping him on the shoulder until he looked down at him. Taking a deep breath, Dean reached up and pressed the flower into his father’s hand until his fingers closed around the stalk, and the small warmth that gathered next to his heart travelled down his arm and vanished as he pulled back. 

John stared down at the flower for a few moments and swallowed as a small smile came over his face. Not a large one, but just enough for Dean to notice the change. 

“Thank you, son,” John mumbled. “Now go to bed, you hear?” 

Dean nodded once and turned to walk back into the hallway, glancing over his shoulder just in time to his dad drop the dandelion in the same vase as the white rose. 

While Dean didn’t quite understand what the flowers seemed to do, he knew that they seemed to be able to do the talking for him, and that was all he could ask for. 


	4. Chapter 4

The rose lay on the windowsill in Castiel’s bedroom, silently wilting. Its creamy petals were frosted with sugar-brown lines that spread a little further every day, curling the edges to a crisp roll.

Castiel sat on the end of his bed, newly awoken from sleep, still in his pyjamas - and stared at it.

He’d definitely  _ felt  _ something when Dean had given it to him. Something that had faded, but the memory of it was in his chest, and his wrist, and his fingertips. Had that just been the fact that - that he’d liked meeting Dean, and so a gift from him had felt special? But it hadn’t felt so simple, it had felt  _ different,  _ somehow, completely new and unlike anything else he’d ever known. He curled his fist, and looked down at it, remembering the sensation of cold fire winding up his wrist. It hadn’t hurt. At the time, he’d thought it was magic.

But magic… as Naomi would have said, magic was a fantasy, the stuff of books and television shows, not real life. It had to just have been Castiel’s imagination.

But it was not that he was encouraged to exercise imagination very much, so the suddenly strong burst of intense fantastical experience left Castiel feeling rocked. He dug his hands into the smooth, satin covers of his too-big bed, and looked around his room, trying to reassure himself with its familiarity. The same grey-blue walls, a calming tone; the same books on the shelves, mostly containing scientific and space facts; the same high ceiling, same starched curtains, same deep carpet that swallowed up toes. 

And on the windowsill, bathed in the cool bright sunlight - a white rose. A softly decaying thing in this little world of clean immovability.

Castiel got down from his bed. He was starting to get his head worried about the rose, and about Dean, and whenever he did that he started wishing he could go back to the garage. Naomi had already made it patently clear that he was never, ever going to go back.

“Did you see the state of the place?” she’d said to Castiel’s stepfather, the night before. “No wonder his son didn’t talk much. He can’t be happy in a place like that.”

“Probably keeping his mouth shut, so that the germs couldn’t get in,” Dick had quipped, barely looking up from his newspaper. Castiel had glared at him, unnoticed. Every day that Dick Roman was around was a day that found Castiel’s dislike for his stepfather to be deeper and more justified, in his own eyes. What had started as a personal vendetta against his mother remarrying so soon after Castiel’s own father had died, was quickly becoming - as Castiel thought of it - a battle between good and evil.

He descended the stairs, the quiet ring of his echoing steps telling him that he was likely alone in the house - perhaps Michael was hidden away somewhere, lounging gracefully on a chaise longue and reading an encyclopedia, or something - but otherwise Castiel thought he probably had the house to himself. He swung down the last few steps using the bannister, and raced through the hallway, across the huge kitchen, and to the back door.

Pushing it open, Castiel stepped outside. He hadn’t bothered with putting on socks or shoes, and the cold slabs of brushed concrete that formed the patio beside his house felt as though they almost burned his soles with their chill. Castiel shifted from foot to foot, his eyes roving over the garden; it was washed in blueish light, giving everything a gentle, clean feel, as though the grass and the trees themselves were freshly laundered. Every indrawn breath was a brush of frost in Castiel’s throat.

There! A few solitary dabs of pastel pink tucked away under the spraying skeleton leaves of a fern. Castiel walked over to the little flowers, and - after a moment’s hesitation - bent down, and plucked a single bloom. He didn’t know its name; the flowers had a strange, waxy quality, but they looked too small to be lillies or orchids like the ones Naomi occasionally brought into the house. But the name wasn’t important. What really mattered was the feeling - the cool fire, the  _ magic.  _

Castiel gripped the little pink blossom, and felt nothing. He tried squeezing his eyes shut. There was - there was _something_ there, but it wasn’t anything spectacular; just a vague sensation that Castiel found it hard to put words to. Perhaps _fine, then._ Or _anything you say._ Or maybe more of an _I don’t suppose I’ll see you again_. Whatever the words were, the feeling Castiel experienced was completely different to the one that the rose had given him. It was all inside his head, not so much _felt_ as _understood,_ like the difference between living something and reading about it. There was a removal, a disconnect. Castiel frowned. Why was this so different?

“It’s more typical to wish on stars, I believe,” said a voice from behind him. Castiel snapped his eyes open to see his mother stepping out over the lawn, wearing a neat suit and a flat expression. Her gaze flicked downwards, and Castiel curled his bare toes into the lawn. The grass, still cold with morning frost, crunched pleasantly.

“I - I was just…” Castiel began, and then trailed off. How to explain what he was doing?  _ I think there’s a flower in my bedroom that’s magic. I was trying to see if any other flowers are. This one might be, but in a different way... _

“You’re wearing no shoes,” Naomi said. She’d reached him, now, and she looked forbidding in the way that she always did over the small things - not too intense, but still wanting to make a point. Castiel swallowed.

“I forgot them.”

“Why are you even outside? It’s very early.”

Castiel lifted his shoulders.

“I - wanted to - think,” he said, trying to be vague. Naomi’s expression shifted.

“Thinking about what? Not that garage boy again?”

Castiel looked down at his feet, and Naomi sighed.

“I just wanted to -”

“Castiel, you can’t,” Naomi said, and her tone sounded slightly different to the way that Castiel expected it to; there was a little bifurcation of intent, there, as though half of her wanted to be angry and the other half was trying to understand. “Don’t you see? The son of the mayor needs to have friends who are of the same social standing. It’s not something we ever talk about in public, but we just don’t mix with some people. Do you see?”

Castiel almost wished that he did. It would make everything so much easier. As it was, he only stared in silence down at his shoes. Naomi put her hand on his shoulder, demanding his eye contact.

“Why can’t you see that this is for the  _ best _ ?” she said, and she sounded too frustrated and too sad for the whole of her emotions to be stemming from her son wanting to go to a garage, Castiel thought. He bit his lip, and then held out his hand with the flower in it.

“This is for you,” he said. A gift. Just like Dean’s rose had been a gift. Naomi looked surprised.

“You picked this for me?”

“It’s a present,” Castiel said, holding it out to her. “For you, Mom.”

Her lips were thin - but she still reached out her hand, and took hold of the flower.

As he passed it over, Castiel felt -  _ something. _ It wasn’t the same as with the rose; if anything, it was the complete opposite. Instead of a feeling rushing into him, he rather felt it rushing away - like watching a wave roll into shore, and this time, instead of being on the sands, he was in a boat further out into the deeps. He drew in a breath, just as Naomi gave a sharp gasp and retracted her hand quickly, still holding onto the flower.

“Mom?” Castiel said, looking up into her face. Had she truly felt it - the magic? “What just happened?”

Naomi rubbed at her wrist for a moment, her eyes faraway, and then suddenly she seemed to snap back to reality.

“Nothing,” she said. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Castiel deflated. He took a step alongside his mother, the frosty grass wetting his soles.

“Am I grounded because of the no-shoes?” he said, already knowing the answer. She  _ always  _ grounded him for little weirdnesses like this one.

There was a pause.

“No,” Naomi said. “It’s fine.”

“What?” Castiel couldn’t help demanding, coming to a halt in shock. Naomi turned back to look down at him.

“I said, it’s fine,” she repeated. “Grounding you isn’t going to stop you doing it again. I just hope you know I’m disappointed.”

Castiel stared at her.

She sounded… resigned, he thought - and suddenly, something clicked inside his head.  _ Fine, then. Anything you want. I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again.  _ Resignation. The feeling that the flower had given off was one of resignation. And now, here was Naomi, acting as though she were resigned to the way that Castiel was behaving…

“Come on,” Naomi said again, reaching out the hand that didn’t have the pink flower in it. “Inside.”

Castiel, still in shock, put his hand in hers and trotted alongside her long strides towards the house.

“Mom,” Castiel said, his thoughts whirring. “I  _ really  _ want to go back to that garage…”

“No,” Naomi said, and her voice was firm. “And this is the last time we’ll have this conversation.  _ Enough _ .”

Castiel gritted his teeth. So, the flower hadn’t made her any more resigned on that front - only the little thing, the thing that she always acted being angry about more than actually feeling it, Castiel knew. So - did the flower change her mind, or did it only - only bring out what was underneath - the way that she felt, secretly, when she wasn’t pretending? The emotion she kept hidden?

“Mom,” Castiel said again, as they reached the house and Naomi pulled the back door open. “What kind of flower is that?”

“This? Cyclamen,” Naomi said, still holding the pink flower. Castiel nodded seriously, and committed it to memory.

_ Cyclamen,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Cyclamen means resignation. _

He had a lot to learn.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Twelve Years Later _

Castiel pulled his suitcase out from underneath his bed, and set it down on top of the sheets. 

It had been a gift for his twentieth birthday, two years ago - from Naomi, who’d hoped that he’d come with her and Dick on their next Caribbean holiday. There was some dust on the top, which was testament to how successful Naomi’s plans to drag him along had been. Castiel swiped it away with the flat of his hand; it stuck to his skin, grey and dry and clingy. He stared at it for a moment - and then brushed it away. It fell to the floor.

Castiel took a deep breath in, and let it go. He had his suitcase out. That was the first step.

Moving over to his closet, he threw open the doors and began selecting clothes. He’d be dressing for warm weather, he reminded himself, pushing aside all the sweaters and jackets. Where he was going, he wouldn’t need them.

An armful of clothing would have to do, he thought, as he swung the assorted shirts and jeans and shoes into his suitcase. He wanted room for his books and his laptop and the couple of bottles of shampoo and shower gel that he’d managed to get hold of - they were such a small detail, but it hadn’t been easy to lay his hands on them, since he couldn’t go out and buy them himself or ask any of their aides to go out and get them - not without it being noticed. And if it were noticed, then Naomi would have been asking what they were for, and she wouldn’t have forgotten it, and Castiel’s carefully laid plans might all have come crumbling down before they had even really begun.

He dropped the clothes into the case and considered them for a moment. They didn’t look like enough, but any more and he’d have no space left... he moved and bent down in front of the cabinet beside his bed, a small, white, delicate piece of carved and painted wood.  He started pulling open the drawers and sorting through things - some old photos, some receipts, some stray pen lids and bits of string… and underneath all of it, in the last drawer, a book.

Castiel went still when he saw the familiar blue cover. He hadn’t touched it in years, not since he’d filled the last page - but if any day was a good day to look at it again, it was now. 

He pulled it out of the drawer, the faux leather smooth under his fingertips, and sat down on the end of his bed next to his open, half-packed suitcase.

_ Castiel’s Diary,  _ read the first page.  _ No one look. _

Castiel smiled, and traced over the neat but definitely childish hand. He’d been so proud of the way that lettering looked, once, so much so that he’d almost wanted to show his mother - but his need for just a small amount of privacy had outweighed the urge.

_ I’m starting this diary because I don’t think anyone will ever believe me. What I’m about to say sounds like something out of a fairy-tale book so I’m putting it in this book, and it can be a fairy tale. So here it is: _

_ I think I can do magic.  _

Castiel smiled, suddenly flooded with memories of the early days of discovery. They’d been so heady, so exciting - into his quiet and grey life had come something so different and wild and strange, and suddenly he dreamed every night in vivid floral colours, smelled rose perfume in his sleep, could almost feel petal-soft touches against his fingertips before he woke. It had turned everything he’d thought he knew upside down.

_ I gave Mom a cyclamen and it made her feel different. Or made one of the things that she felt stronger, or something. I don’t understand it very well. So this is the book where I’m going to write about it since I can’t ever talk about it or they’ll think I’ve gone crazy. _

Flicking through the pages, Castiel caught glimpses of his moments of revelation. It made his heart clench to remember how it had been before he’d understood so many things about himself - before he’d known who he truly was. It had been simpler, in a way. No need to hide anything or worry about what would happen if someone  _ did  _ ever read his diary or realise what he could do. And yet - growing, becoming aware of what he could do - it had given him so much, too. Something to work on, something to be true to; a meaning in his life.

_ Mom gave me a white rose today because I liked the one at the garage so much, but I felt nothing. Does it have to be a gift from a specific person? _

_ Gave Michael a white chrysanthemum and he finally told me what happened to our father. I think it was good for him to get it off his chest and I know he didn’t lie to me. Note: white chrysanthemum means truth. Use carefully. _

_ Found a purple carnation today. It gave me a feeling like - it’s always so hard to put into words - rejection, maybe. Anyway, I gave it to my stepfather. I think he got the message because he hasn’t spoken to me since and the silence has been golden. Note: stock up on purple carnations. _

Years passed with the pages rolling away under Castiel’s fingers. Occasionally he’d drawn flowers that he didn’t know the names of, so that he could look them up later in the botanist’s encyclopedia set that he’d asked for and received for his eleventh birthday. Each flower had its own meaning, he’d learned - and every flower that he gave as a gift had an effect.

_ What kind of magic is this? Flower magic, I suppose. What does that make me? Some kind of flower wizard? Though I looked it up and apparently it’s witchery that’s more usually associated with flowers and the earth and things like that. So I suppose I’m more of a flowerwitch. Michael would laugh at that. _

Castiel ran his fingers over the word - flowerwitch. The years had helped him to accept himself, and his strangeness; and yet, still, there was a problem about it that was hard to move away from: his solitude. Swallowing hard, Castiel turned to the last page.

_ There isn’t room for any more in this diary. I don’t really need it, I suppose. I have my flowerwitch crib sheet with me at all times, anyway, in case I forget a meaning, though they’re all well-ingrained by now. I think the only thing I’ll miss about keeping a diary is the opportunity to talk about what I am. It’s been nearly ten years since I was first given a flower as a gift and I’ve been given others since then, but none of them have made me feel that same way. I am alone in what I am, except for - to my knowledge - that one boy in the garage. Dean. I think about him still and I wonder what he’s grown up to be. _

_ I’m going to move away from this house one day. I’m going to leave them behind - Mom, Michael, definitely my stepfather - and just go. Buy a place somewhere warm and open a shop and sell people flowers, and just live like a normal human being - or as normal as it can get for me. No grey clean walls and smooth clean sheets and wearing shoes to go outside… no cameras and fake smiles. None of it. I’ll be free. Still alone, but free. I’m going to stick the rose in this diary and I’m going to put it away in a drawer and I’m not going to open it again until the day I’m leaving my house forever. It’s time to stop looking back, and start planning ahead. _

Castiel read the words of his past self - he’d written it over two years ago - with his heart thudding. When he’d inscribed those words onto the last page, a part of him had never believed that he’d be able to get himself out of his house, away from his stepfather, far from the stifling tension and nerves that always simmered under the surface. And now - here he was. Packing up his clothes and preparing to go.

He looked at the rose, the one that Dean had given him. He’d dried it, pressing it between two heavy books and leaving it for a month, and for years he’d had it on his bedside cabinet before finally sticking it onto the inside back cover of this diary. He could still remember the way that the rose had made him feel when he’d been given it - something that he could only have felt if Dean, too, was a flowerwitch - and if he had also been feeling that cool fire, that  _ nice to meet you  _ sensation in his chest. As Castiel had learned, the magic only worked if it went along with his intent. If he tried to give someone a white chrysanthemum for truth when he didn’t want to hear it, it wouldn’t work, just as much as when they didn’t want to tell. If he tried to give a yellow lily for gratitude when he wasn’t thankful, it wouldn’t work. And if he tried to give a thornless white rose, for - Castiel swallowed hard. He still wasn’t quite sure  _ what  _ it was that the rose had meant. He only knew that the feeling, that nameless, beautiful feeling - he hadn’t been alone in that. It had been mutual.

Castiel wondered if Dean also felt alone. If he missed being able to talk openly about who he was. Or maybe, Castiel reminded himself, Dean had already told people. Not everyone lived in a place where they’d be laughed at and possibly committed for telling the truth. And yet - Castiel still remembered the way John had put his hand on Dean’s shoulder; the proprietary tension in his hand, and the look in Dean’s eye. That relationship hadn’t looked especially open. Maybe Dean really was just as lost as Castiel. Maybe more, since at least Castiel knew that Dean was a flowerwitch, too - and Dean had no idea that it also worked for Castiel.

He reached down, and touched the crisp edge of the rose. When he felt a familiar little kick of that cool fire, he smiled. He’d never known any flower’s magic to last as long as that of this rose. The only way he, himself, had worked out how to make the magic endure was to keep the gift in his mind; to think of the flower and the recipient, again and again. Somehow, that seemed to keep the gift’s power strong, but even then, not for terribly long - eventually, he always forgot, anyway. And surely Dean would have long since forgotten about Castiel, or at the very least didn’t think of him every day. Still, it was the way that the rose held its magic that had Castiel so attached to it, before he’d decided to close it up in his diary and look ahead.

He pulled his fingertip away from the rose, and snapped the diary shut.  _ Enough.  _ It would be so easy to fall back into the grip of his hook on the past.

Pulling out his phone, Castiel entered his password and opened up his email. The very first one was the latest message from his realtor - his mother’s property manager, who had agreed to Castiel’s professional request to keep his business affairs separate from his mother’s dealings.

_ >> Just a few pictures of the place. Not too clean but not bad. Down payment received via transfer so the place is yours to move into whenever. Will be in contact. Have not spoken to the rest of your family as per your request. Sincerely, Anna. _

Castiel pulled open the pictures she had sent. His new home - and the premises of his new shop - looked shabby, yes, but the place was on a busy high-street corner, perfect for marketing purposes. And the house itself seemed to have some odd corners and small staircases in strange places - an old house - just the way Castiel liked it. Coming into his own money at twenty-one, his inheritance from his father, had been just what he’d needed to put his carefully-laid plans into action. He’d hired a realtor and explained his unique familial situation to her, and she’d done the rest. When he moved, Castiel decided, the first thing he was going to do was find Anna Milton’s offices and deliver her a gift hamper, and possibly invite her round for dinner.

Well, perhaps the  _ first  _ thing he’d do would be to have a shower. After all, those bottles of shampoo and shower gel hadn’t been easy to find. He wasn’t even sure why he needed them so much - it wasn’t as though a different city would be suddenly lacking in body washes. Putting down his phone, he reached for them, stashed under his mattress; the same, familiar brand that he’d used since he was tiny. The way he’d kept himself clean, clean enough to live in this house, to earn his mother’s approval. He had to take them, he knew, these  _ exact _ ones. It was important. He was moving, yes, but he wasn’t forgetting who he was.

He threw the bottles into the suitcase, and quickly followed them with his diary, his botanist’s encyclopedia, and his laptop - his hard-won laptop, that he’d only managed to convince his mother to buy after telling her that he already had the Internet on his phone, anyway, so there was no point trying to keep it from him any longer. He treasured it. The first thing he’d done with it had been exactly the same as the first thing he’d done when he’d giddily realised that he could get on the Internet on his phone: he’d googled ‘batman’. Both times, the bat symbol had popped up, and Castiel had smiled to see it.

Standing up, Castiel tucked his phone into his pocket and zipped up his suitcase. Hefting it with one hand, he reached with the other for a piece of paper on the top of his bedside cabinet - or rather, an envelope, with a letter inside. Castiel swallowed as he picked it up, still not sure if he was doing the right thing by leaving a note behind. Naomi could so easily find him, try to freeze his bank account, bring him back home. He’d put a sprig of valerian inside; the magic, he’d learned, worked perfectly well, even if he didn’t put the flowers right into someone’s hand. So long as they were a gift from him, the strength of the effect was just the same. The valerian, he hoped, would bring out his mother’s acceptance, even if his written words couldn’t do the trick. He’d left an address, and an explanation. He still hadn’t decided if it was not enough, or too much.

Leaving the envelope on his pillow, Castiel walked across his room for the last time. At the door, he turned back to look at it - smaller, now, than it had been before, and greyer, and even more familiar. Castiel let out a breath, and turned away. Down the stairs, across the hall. There was no one here today, Castiel was certain of that; his brother was at work with his stepfather, and his mother was out for lunch with a colleague.

Castiel swallowed. He rested his free hand on the door handle, the other still gripping his suitcase. The silence was pressing.

“I can do magic,” he said into it - speaking the words aloud for the first time in his life. “I’m a flowerwitch, and I can do magic. I’ve known since I was ten.”

He waited for a moment. The house said nothing in return, but the silence was slightly different - not quite as still and complete, as though his words were echoing quietly around the rooms and in corners, disturbing the peace. He smiled at the thought, and nodded.

It was time to leave. He opened the door, and stepped beyond it.


	6. Chapter 6

The bus out of town smelled thickly, but not unpleasantly, of people - perfume, and plastic shopping bags, and chewing gum. Castiel sat tightly on a back seat, hoping that no one would recognise him. His stepfather’s continued tenure as the mayor meant that Castiel did have to make occasional television appearances; if he were to be recognised, if someone took a picture…

Across the aisle, a woman holding a bundle of clothes slowly chewed a sandwich. Beside her, an old man seemed to be taking a nap. The rest of the bus seemed similarly lethargic.

Castiel was not, he concluded, in any immediate danger.

He looked at the woman and the old man in front of him, feeling strangely comforted by their presence. Who could tell how they'd react to him if they knew he called himself a flowerwitch, but in blissful ignorance of each other's ins and outs, they were able to exist together in quietness - no arguing, no tension. Sunlight streamed through the bus windows, a slightly haggard but smiling yellow. Castiel thought that his first trip on public transport was going quite well.

The woman finished her sandwich and shifted slightly, her dreadlocked hair falling over her face. She raised a hand to push it back - and the bundle of clothes in her arms seemed to wriggle, suddenly, and emitted a thin, high-pitched wail. Castiel stared at it in horror for several moments before understanding, as a tiny dark fist rose above the swaddling blankets. Not clothes - a baby.

“Come on, honey,” the woman - the mother, Castiel assumed - said, in a low, pleasant voice. “You'll wake everyone up.”

Castiel hadn't met many babies, but this one seemed too young to understand its mother's words. Its cries grew louder, and the woman began to rock it nervously.

Castiel frowned, and then reached into his jacket pocket. If he wasn't mistaken, he still had - ah, there it was, an extra sprig of valerian, white flowers a little crushed but not ruined. He looked across at the baby, who seemed to be gathering a head of steam, the yells becoming more and more insistent. The old man beside her jerked awake from his nap with a little grunt, and the woman looked up at him apologetically.

“He gets cranky after his nap,” she said. “I’m usually home before he wakes up, but today’s been so crazy and I left late, and -”

“No need to explain,” the man said gruffly. He wasn’t quite as old as Castiel had originally thought, perhaps - only fifty or fifty-five at the most. “Looked after a few kids myself before, I know how they are.”

The woman smiled at him gratefully for his understanding, though the worry behind her eyes didn’t quite fade as her baby kept screaming. Castiel winced against the sound, and leaned forward. He’d never done this before - he wasn’t even sure if people ever did this on buses, or whether offering help was impolite in some way - but he couldn’t just stand by.

“Excuse me,” he said, pinching the stem of the valerian tighter between his fingers. The mother’s head jerked up to look at him, her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, to him. “He’ll be quiet in a moment -”

Castiel held out the sprig, and tried to give a small, reassuring smile.

“They say valerian is reassuring,” he said, self-conscious, knowing that he probably sounded insane. “Maybe if you give him this to hold, it will help.” There was no ‘maybe’ about it, Castiel knew. If the baby was given the valerian, it would be calmed. But the mother was staring at him, looking slightly worried.

“Um,” Castiel said. “I, um. My mother has problems with anxiety. When I give her this, it helps, so I keep some on me. I just thought…”

“Oh!” said the woman. Something about the explanation seemed to relax her; her face eased, and she reached out a hand, a couple of gold bangles clinking together on her wrist. “Well - thank you.”

Castiel placed the valerian in her hand, making sure to focus the intent of the gift in his mind not on her, but on her baby. He felt no shiver or tug of magic as she held it - but then, smiling down at her little bundle, she pressed the flower into his chubby fist. Castiel felt the familiar ebb of power, the sense of something shifting… and, at once, the baby’s cries stilled.

The mother gazed down at her baby in shock, as it made a last few snuffling noises. Castiel sat back in his seat, satisfied.

“How - how did you do that?” she said, rocking the baby back and forth. She frowned, suddenly. “Is there something in it? Did it go through his skin?”

“No, no,” Castiel assured her quickly. “Not at all. It’s just something we’ve found that works for my mom.” It wasn’t  _ quite  _ lying, he told himself. It would work equally well on his mother, or so he hoped. “A natural remedy.”

The baby made a little happy, calm, chattering sound, and the woman’s face broke into a smile again.

“Well,” she said, “thanks.” She offered him a warm look. Beside her, the old man was looking at Castiel with his eyes narrowed, ever so slightly calculating. Castiel moved uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how he’d drawn attention to himself; a lot of people on the bus were looking at him.

They were pulling up at a station near the centre of town, and Castiel made an impulsive decision. He stood up, nodded a final goodbye to the mother, who smiled at him, and strode off the bus.

The air outside was pleasantly cooler and cleaner, and Castiel took a deep breath of it as he turned and watched the bus hiss and move away. He could get on the next one, he decided. It was better to lose a few minutes of time, and not be in danger of someone snapping his photo and it finding its way to his mother and stepfather. So long as he was still in the city, they could stop him leaving somehow - he was certain of it. But once he was on the road, he’d be safer.

He checked the sign on the board in the station and found that the next bus out of town left in a half hour. He swallowed; it was longer than he’d thought. He needed a way to lie low, somehow…

Across the street, something caught his eye. It was a store with a bright, yellow-and-white striped awning - and through the windows, lining shelves, Castiel could see pots of glorious, flowering blooms. It was a florist.

Castiel’s feet were moving him forwards before he could even take the time to think twice. Ever since he’d discovered his flowerwitchery, florist’s shops had become completely irresistible to him - and now, with his own premises awaiting him in another city, going into one wouldn’t even cause him the usual clutch of envy. He crossed the busy road and strode in through the shop door, a little bell tinkling overhead.

The place smelled of dirt and perfume, with a slight hint of brackish water. Castiel wrinkled his nose. In  _ his  _ florist’s, the water would always be kept fresh. He ran his hand over the nearest flowers - orchids and lilies, mixed - and understood a sense of  _ beautiful, you are so beautiful.  _ The blossoms were fresh and their power was strong.

“Good morning, Sir,” said a blonde girl with a bright smile, who appeared by his side. “How can I help you today?”

Castiel pulled his hand back, and smiled awkwardly in return.

“Yes,” he said, and then realised that was the wrong response. “I’m actually just browsing.” The girl looked slightly confused, but nodded and smiled with a slight shrug.

“I’ll be up the front if you have any questions!” she said brightly. “We do special arrangements and deliveries, so just ask.” 

Castiel thanked her, and moved around to the other side of the aisle, letting his fingertips roll over the soft petals of as many flowers as he could touch.  _ I’m sorry… I will always be faithful… it’s our secret…  I love you… we’re better together… _

Castiel paused, on that last one.

He looked down at his hand, hovered over two flowers - one a white rose, and the other a red. He touched a finger to the petal of the white, and experienced again that sense of  _ it’s our secret.  _ It was nothing like the white rose that had been given to him, all those years ago - this one had thorns, and it was closer-curled, more secretive. The red rose, of course, said simply  _ I love you,  _ as all red roses did. But when Castiel put his hand on both together, they sang,  _ we’re better together. _

Immediately, Dean was in his thoughts. Better together, Castiel thought.  _ We’re better together.  _ It was perfect. He reached into the buckets, and started pulling out blooms - six red, and six white, careful not to prick his skin with the sharp thorns.

“You found something you liked?” said the girl at the front of the shop, when Castiel approached her, roses in his arms.  _ We’re better together,  _ they still murmured to him, soft and lyrical, only ceasing when he laid them down on the smooth lacquered countertop for the girl to wrap them. Now that she was standing right in front of him, Castiel could see her name-badge: it read  _ Jo,  _ in swirling letters.

“I did,” Castiel confirmed. “I’d like these delivered. To, ah -” 

He looked at the girl blankly, suddenly realising that ‘to Dean’ wasn’t any kind of decent address. He struggled to remember the actual name of the garage, squinting with the effort.

“There’s a garage,” he said aloud. “It’s owned by someone called John… he has a son called Dean -”

“The Winchester Garage?” the girl - Jo - said, looking startled. “The one right around the corner?”

Castiel stared at her, his heart beginning to thud a little harder.

“It’s around the corner? The place where Dean works?”

Jo nodded dubiously, eyeing Castiel with sudden suspicion.

“How do you know Dean?” she said. “He comes in here a lot.”

“I - I met him once,” Castiel said, suddenly under the spotlight. “A long time ago. His father helped fix my stepfather’s car. I want to send him these, please.” As he finished speaking, his tone became more firm.

“You want them delivered?”

Castiel hesitated. It was tempting, he thought. Tempting to just send them that way, and be done with it. But the magic would be stronger, if he gave them to Dean in person - and besides, it would probably be for the best if he actually  _ saw  _ Dean again, after so long remembering that briefest of encounters. In all likelihood, he was exaggerating how much he’d liked Dean, inside his own head. He needed to go to the garage, and  _ see  _ him, as a real human being who had probably grown up a lot since last time.

_ Definitely  _ grown up a lot, Castiel corrected himself.  _ Definitely.  _ Dean wasn’t going to be the ten-year-old with the wide grin anymore. Castiel had no idea where life had taken him.

“Sir?”

“Um, no. No delivery, I’ll take them myself. If you could draw me a map?”

“Certainly,” Jo said, and she didn’t ask any further questions, even though Castiel could sense the intensity of her curiosity. She scribbled a few quick lines on a piece of paper, and drew two big arrows.

“That’s us, and that’s them,” she said, pushing it towards him. “Do you want a card to go with these? It’s free.”

Castiel considered, and then nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll write it.” Jo looked surprised, but handed him the little brown paper card and a pen without objection. 

_ Better together. -Castiel,  _ he wrote. Dean would understand, Castiel knew he would. When he touched the flowers and read the note that said the same thing, he’d realise that Castiel was also a flowerwitch. Whether or not he, too, would have been feeling lonely all these years - whether he, too, would think that they could maybe, just possibly, be better together - that was something that Castiel could not foresee.

He paid for the flowers quickly, and scooped them off the counter, wrapped in their crackling cellophane, the card tucked in among the blooms. Thanking Jo, he left the shop and turned right, following the map that she had given him. He let the fingertips of one hand brush over the petals, hearing their magic running through him, giving him confidence. He’d never felt power this strong inside flowers; they hummed with it, sang with it - maybe they felt the intensity of his own emotion, and were reflecting it back to him. His heart was certainly thudding, his fingers tingling.

He mustn’t forget about the bus, he reminded himself. He’d already spent ten minutes in the shop. He was probably going to have to run for it, after delivering the flowers.

He turned down a side-street, and suddenly found himself in a place that was absurdly and hauntingly familiar. He’d dreamed of this road: of the figure that he’d had to watch receding, as it had stood outside the garage - right  _ there,  _ Castiel thought, looking at the spot. Dean had stood right there _.  _ And the garage, behind it, still looked so similar that it was as though he were being cast back in time. Drawing level with it on the opposite side of the road, Castiel stopped, and stared.

The sign had obviously been repainted a couple of times, but the stack of tires outside was the same, and so was the logo. Watching, Castiel almost expected ten-year-old Dean to come barrelling out of that door once more, grinning, a white rose in his hand. But the road was still - completely quiet, not even a car passing by. Only a light breeze made the scene real, and not a picture painted in front of Castiel’s eyes.

Suddenly, with a creak, the door of the car shop swung open. A tall man stepped out, wearing a thick-looking apron tied at the back; he was facing back into the car shop, laughing at something someone inside had said. Castiel wasn’t sure whether or not to step away, to hide - when the man turned around.

It was Dean. He’d aged, yes, of course - grown and filled out, and his cheekbones were more pronounced, now, his chin stronger - but it was  _ him.  _ Without a doubt.

Castiel gripped the roses tighter in his arms.  _ Better together,  _ they said. Castiel wasn’t sure if it sounded more plausible or more absurd, now that he saw Dean in person.

Dean picked up a broom by the side of the shop door and began to sweep the drive, clearing it of the slippery fallen leaves that coated the pathway to the entrance. Castiel watched him in silence, suddenly caught. As much as Castiel had tried to prepare himself for the fact that Dean would be a real, grown-up man, now, there was still something about seeing him standing there that took Castiel’s breath from away. He was right  _ there.  _ Sweeping up those leaves, oblivious to Castiel’s quiet observation. It would be so easy to walk over there, give him the flowers, tell him that he was never forgotten…

But  _ should  _ he? It would be easy, but what if it were also - stupid, or wrong? Dean looked content enough, sweeping up the drive. Perhaps it would be for the best if Castiel were to leave him to it. Perhaps Dean had managed to succeed in living a relatively normal life, and Castiel’s reappearance - however brief - might disturb it. Or maybe Dean would only laugh in his face.

And yet - how could Dean not feel lonely? How could he not feel as though he wanted to be able to talk, at last, about what he could do? Though perhaps he already had talked about it, with someone else. Someone he trusted.

Castiel bit his lip, oscillating within himself, half certain that he would be making Dean miserable by going over there, and half certain that he would be leaving Dean miserable if he did not. He watched and watched, letting Dean’s figure become familiar; the shape of his shoulders, the angle of his head. After five minutes or so, the job was almost done; he stood the broom up straight, leaned against it, put one hand on his hip - and looked upwards, straight at Castiel.

In that instant, Castiel’s choice was taken away from him. There was no longer a question of  _ should I go over  _ or  _ should I walk away.  _ Dean’s reaction forbade any consequence other than a meeting. Castiel watched him freeze, watched his face go utterly still as though he’d seen a ghost. That he recognised Castiel was beyond obvious; that it meant something to him, something important - that, too, seemed unmistakeable. He began to walk forwards, letting the broom drop to the floor in a graceful arc behind him. Castiel stepped forwards, the world around him seeming to swirl with only Dean as a single point of clear focus ahead. He couldn’t feel his legs beneath him as he walked, stopping in the middle of the road when Dean -  _ Dean -  _ was just an arm’s length away.

For a long while, they only stared at each other. Eye to eye, they stood, looking and looking - seeking the people they’d seen, all those years ago.

Castiel didn’t blink. In Dean’s eyes, he saw - curiosity, he thought, and… something that reminded him inexplicably of dandelions, a part of his mind saying  _ hope, even still, hope.  _ Hope against the weight of expectation, Castiel thought. That was what he saw in Dean’s eyes.

“It’s you,” he said aloud, very quietly. Dean blinked. “It’s really you.”

There was silence. The street was still just as quiet, and no cars came to push them to the side of the road. They stood, unmoving, in the centre of it, with Castiel still holding his roses.

Dean seemed to be struggling for words.  _ Of course,  _ Castiel remembered,  _ he doesn’t speak.  _ He was about to say something else himself, to fill the silence, but Dean was reaching into the deep front pocket of his apron, and producing out of it… a sprig of green, star-shaped leaves. Ivy, Castiel recognised. Dean looked down at it for a second, holding it delicately between his large hands, and then held it out to him.

Castiel shifted the roses under one arm, and reached out, and took it. 

The sensation of foreign flower magic rolled over Castiel, for the second time in his life. This time, the sensation was vines that curled up his fingers, his wrists, his chest, and wrapped around his heart - light, yet strong, the rustling leaves murmuring  _ friend, friend, good to see you again.  _ Castiel’s eyes went wide with the feeling, so completely different to his own flower magic; Dean’s was so warm, so personal, so deeply felt that it almost hurt.

“Thank you,” he managed to say out loud. Dean nodded, and then opened his mouth.

“Sorry,” he said, in the voice that Castiel had heard only once before. It was still rough with disuse, but lower, and stronger. “Still not the best with words. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I wanted to come back,” Castiel said. It felt important that Dean should know that. “I asked to come back. My mother told me I absolutely could not.”

Dean nodded. Castiel wound the ivy in his hand around his fingers, the sensation of it still dizzyingly strong. He thought that Dean would ask how he’d managed to get away, this time, and be standing in front of him - but he didn’t.

“Did you come about - about the flowers?” he said instead, hesitantly. “About - you know - what I can do?”

What  _ I  _ can do, Castiel thought, and he heard it in Dean’s voice, then - the loneliness, the disbelief in himself, the frustration, the worry. Everything that Castiel had been struggling with for so, so long, all wrapped up inside that sentence, the feeling so direct and well-understood that it was almost like holding a flower.

Instead of speaking again, Castiel lifted up the ivy in his hand. For a moment, he gripped it tighter, focusing his intent upon it - and then he held it out to Dean.

“For you,” he said. Dean looked confused - almost upset - but nevertheless, he reached for the gift.

As soon as he touched it, Castiel saw his eyes go rounder than roses; he felt the rolling-away sensation of the flower magic as it flowed into Dean, and returned his message back -  _ friend, friend, friend. Good to see you again.  _ He looked up at Castiel, disbelieving.

“What  _ we  _ can do,” Castiel said. The look in Dean’s eyes was utterly shaken, his hold on the ivy white-knuckle tight. It made Castiel’s heart clench in his chest to see the raw emotion, the way that Dean couldn’t hide how much this meant to him: to find out that he was not alone, he wasn’t the only one, there was  _ someone else  _ like him. 

“You - you too,” Dean said, his voice impossibly hopeful. “You can do it too? I’m not crazy?”

Castiel lifted his shoulders slightly.

“If you are,” he said, with just a touch of dryness, “then we’re the same type of crazy.”

Dean let out a little huff of laughter, that could have been only an exhalation of shock. 

“Yours feels different to mine. Bigger. Or - brighter - or something,” he said, one hand rising to his chest. Castiel nodded.

“And yours is stronger than mine,” he replied. “Warmer.” There was something about the nature of Dean’s magic, the silent sound of it - the  _ sing  _ of it, hard to explain - that made Castiel feel as though he knew Dean, knew who he was at the centre, somehow. There was a closeness to the magic, to sharing each other’s witchery, that seemed to undercut the years of silence, the fact that this was only their second meeting.

“Have you told anyone else?” Dean said.

“About being a flowerwitch? No.”

“Flowerwitch?” Castiel watched Dean’s smile return for the first time, and felt his heart moved in a way that had nothing to do with flowers.

“I thought it was better than  _ magical fairy princess, _ ” Castiel said, deadpan. “But, admittedly, not by much.”

Dean’s grin widened.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “I’m not the only one. I thought I was losing my mind. I gave you that flower and part of me thought I was crazy. But it kept working…” Castiel nodded along, his heart thudding with happiness to hear what he’d been through said aloud, spoken by someone else.

“I’ve never met anyone else who could do it. Not since you,” Castiel said. “I was never sure if you gave me the power, or if I already had it…”

Dean shrugged, frowning.

“No one else I’ve given flowers to ever got the magic after. Only you, I guess.” He couldn’t seem to stop smiling as he said it.

“Hmm. Maybe we awoke each other’s power, somehow.”

“Does it matter? We’re  _ here.  _ We’ve both got  _ magic. _ ” Dean grinned. “Man. What are we gonna do?”

Castiel squinted at him.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, we’ve got this thing we can do! I’ve just been sitting here trying to hide it all this time because I thought I was - you know, completely crazy -” Castiel nodded sagely - “but turns out, I’m not! We could do anything! You know, use it for - for good, or something…”

Castiel smiled softly.

“Like Batman,” he said, and Dean went still, looking at Castiel.

“You remember,” he said. His voice sounded just like his magic, somehow. “Yeah. Like Batman.” For a moment, they shared a look of understanding, of memory. 

Castiel swallowed hard, trying to focus on why he’d come.

“These are for you,” he said, hefting the roses. “I wanted to - to give them to you, because - well. I’m going away.”

“You’re what?”

Castiel hated to hear the sudden disbelief in his tone.

“I’m going away.”

“Wh- for how long?”

“I’m leaving the city.”

Dean’s mouth fell open.

“Dude. We’ve only just found each other again, and you’re bailing?”

Castiel stared at him, willing Dean to understand. He wished he had flowers with him - iris, to inspire faith, or white poppy for consolation.

“I’ll never be free here,” Castiel said. “I’ll never be able to be myself. My stepfather - my mother…” he trailed off, not wanting to talk about it. Dean’s jaw was tight, but he nodded.

“I get that,” was all he said.

“I’ve found a place. I’m going to open a shop - a florist’s. I’m going to help people, and earn a living, and I’m going to - to be happy.” He said it as determinedly as he could. Dean was watching his face, his expression creased, as though he were trying to understand.

“I - okay,” he said. “That’s why you came? One last look?”

Castiel held out the roses.

“For you,” he said, again. Dean looked even more sceptical this time, but he still put out his hand for them, if unwillingly. Castiel took a moment - rolled his intent, his feeling, down into the flowers, tried to make them say what he needed to say -

Dean took them, and gasped aloud. 

For a moment, they were both holding the roses, and Castiel felt a wave of power roll from him to Dean, stronger than anything he had ever experienced before. The sensation of fire that would always belong to the white rose coursed out through him, along with the heat of the red - the two of them running together, hot and cool, bright and rich, singing a song that Castiel knew Dean could hear.  _ Better together, better together, better together. We’d be better together. _

Castiel let go of the flowers, and the feeling diminished, ever so slightly. It was still raw and palpable in the air, and he couldn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes.

“Castiel,” said Dean, and the first time Castiel heard his name in Dean’s mouth was a jolt in his chest. “What - what…?”

“Are you happy here?” Castiel said, a little desperately. “Do you like your life here?”

Dean stared at him, speechless.

“If you do,” Castiel pressed on, “stay. Do what’s right for you. But if - if this place is anything like my home - if you can’t be yourself… then come with me. We’d be better together.”

All of Dean’s power to speak seemed to have been robbed from him. Castiel swallowed hard.

“My new house is on the corner of Fell and Castro,” he said. “Three cities over. There are four floors and two bedrooms.”

“You don’t even know me,” Dean managed to say.

Castiel paused, and then reached out his hand. After a moment, Dean understood; he held out his hand, and Castiel took back the ivy clutched within it. The wash of magic that sounded like liquid gold - or perhaps tasted like late-afternoon sun - that felt so completely and utterly right, and good, settled against Castiel’s heart. 

“I think I do,” he said, meeting Dean’s eyes. “I think I know you.” There was nothing more to say; he didn’t want to put pressure on Dean, or make him feel uncomfortable. He nodded awkwardly, and began to move away.

“I don’t think I can come,” Dean called after him. “I’m - won’t you stay?”

Castiel turned back one last time. He took a couple of moments to look into Dean’s eyes - tried to memorise their green, their hope - and then he shook his head.

“I won’t live my whole life missing out on who I am,” he said. “And I can’t be who I am here.”

Dean stared at him, looking shaken.

“Can you?” Castiel said, and then he turned, and walked away.

*

Dean watched with his mouth hanging open as Castiel slowly walked away down the road. It felt almost like the magic from before; here one minute, comforting and warm, and then gone the next, ebbing from him the further Castiel walked. 

The flowers were still clutched in his arms, the red and white roses pulsing with Castiel’s energy and whispering  _ better together, better together  _ over and over again against his heart. 

He headed on numb legs back into the garage, winced at the sound of the door clanging shut behind him, and looked over at the car he’d just been working on. 

Dean had a life here, didn’t he? 

Castiel’s story was obviously very different than his own, a life that Dean had been more or less able to watch through the television if he’d wanted. Every once in awhile he’d been able to google the mayor’s son but it seemed like Castiel more or less was able to keep himself out of the limelight if he wanted to. A face and a few key events was all he was really able to get. 

Castiel was miserable here, but Dean . . . he didn’t  _ think  _ he was. 

He had a small apartment with an air conditioner that sometimes worked, a small flower garden hanging outside of his bedroom window, and a job that payed the bills. Sure, it was a job that he’d been expected to go into his whole life, but he was good at it. He enjoyed it. 

Dean gazed down at the bundle of roses in his hands, and walked over to the vase with a single white rose sprouting from it, and gently set the bouquet down beside it. The magic still remained, even after he’d let go of the stems, though it grew slightly fainter. 

“Who was that?” 

Dean looked over to see Jo, blonde hair pulled up into a tight ponytail, looking at the flowers with a curious expression. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to drop by unannounced.” Jo still had her apron on from the flower shop she worked at. “Just wanted to check up on you. That guy was acting kinda dodgy and was asking about you.” She shrugged. “I am a concerned friend.” 

Dean paused for a moment, looking back to the flowers. 

“Just someone I used to know,” he murmured, feeling the  _ better together, better together  _ wrap around him comfortingly. 

Jo raised an eyebrow and smiled mischievously. “Old boyfriend you never told me about?”

Dean flushed bright red and shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since I was ten, Jo. Not a boyfriend.” 

Jo hummed and folded her arms together. “He’s got good taste in flowers. Almost as good as you do. Maybe I should give him a job offer, too.” She gave Dean a sidelong glance and winked. “It would make you happy, you know.”

Dean blinked and took a surprised step backwards. “Do you think I’m not happy?”

Jo’s teasing look immediately vanished. “No, that’s not what I - I mean - of course I do -  you’re really -” She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her apron awkwardly. “I mean. . . . you’re happy around cars, I guess. But you’re happier around flowers. I see it in your face every time you come into the shop. “

Dean frowned and glanced from the car to the bundle of roses. 

“You should probably head back to work, Jo,” Dean said with a sigh, grabbing a bottle of oil for the car and heading back towards it. “It’s about time to water those succulents, don’t you think?” 

“I’ll see you later, Dean,” Jo murmured from somewhere behind him. 

The sound of the door shutting was heard for the second time in the past few minutes, and even though he couldn’t see them, the roses still called to him. 

_ Better together. Better together.  _

*

Dean had been staring at his hands as the water ran over them and into the sink in the garage for the past five minutes. 

They were definitely clean by now, but the warm sensation - combined with everything that had happened that day - easily made him stop and meditate for a bit. 

Was he happy?

He’d been thinking about that question all day long, mulling it over in his head and inspecting it from every angle that he could find.

He had happy  _ moments _ , that was for sure. 

Skype calls with Sam. Visiting Jo at the flower shop. The purr of an engine after a job well done. Chatting with Billie about the latest episode of Dr. Sexy. Handing out the occasional flower to someone who needed it. 

But he wouldn’t call himself truly happy. 

He’d call himself content. Safe. 

Back when Sam had decided that he didn’t want to work at the garage and would rather go to school, Dean remembered asking him why, when everything he needed was here. What more was out there?

_ “I don’t know, Dean. I just have to take the risk. I won’t know if there’s something more if I don’t take a leap of faith.” _

Dean couldn’t remember the last time that he’d taken any kind of leap of of faith, and that was probably why he felt safe instead of happy. 

Dean looked over at the flowers that were still laying on the table next to the rose, and sighed as he pulled out his hands from under the faucet and dried them off on a towel. It was too late, though. Castiel was gone and the offer with him. They hadn’t exchanged any kind of phone number or anything useful to find each other again. 

What was it Castiel had said about where he was going? Something about Fell and Castro. . . four cities over? Or was it three?

Dean cursed his memory and pulled out the keys to lock up the shop before remembering the bouquet of roses that he’d left on the table in the table in the middle of the garage. The least he could do was take them home and stick them in a vase; maybe eventually hang them upside down to dry when they were looking rough around the edges. 

He took off his coveralls and set them on a hook before walking back over to the table and studying the flowers again. 

He was going to regret this moment if he didn’t at least try, right?

With a sigh, Dean reached out and took hold of the bundle once more, expecting the - now familiar - feeling of  _ better together, better together, _ but instead, a new feeling was intermingled with the other magic. 

He grasped the roses tightly and focused on the intruding magic, tilting his head and closing his eyes. There was a small tug against his heart, urging him out the door and into his car. It was an easy enough request to follow... and Dean did just that, as he locked the door behind him and turned the key to the Impala. As soon as the engine roared to life, Dean placed one hand on the bouquet and the other on the steering wheel, almost immediately knowing where he was supposed to drive. 

The tugging on his heart grew stronger the more he listened to the flowers requests, taking one turn after another in the direction that he could feel inside of him, like a compass. 

He drove for a good thirty minutes down the highway once he’d driven out of the city, the magic urging him onwards at an excited pace. This was crazy. Dean didn’t even know what he was  _ doing, _ let alone  _ why _ he was doing it. 

_ “I’m sorry officer,”  _ he could imagine himself saying,  _ “I’m speeding because these flowers told me to.” _

It wasn’t long after that he felt the need beginning to slow down, and eventually pulled over at what looked to be a gas station that had definitely seen better days. It wasn't’ very well lit for a gas station on the outskirts of a city, but the light wasn’t completely necessary yet seeing as the sun was only just starting to set on the horizon. 

The compass in his chest was spinning rapidly the closer he drove, until he saw a familiar figure hunched over near a gas pump with a suitcase in hand. 

Dean took a deep breath as he slowly pulled up next to the figure and cranked the window down. 

“Hey,” Dean said, licking his lips nervously when Castiel jerked his head up in surprise. “Can I give you a lift someplace?”

A smile slowly spread across his face as he stood, clutching the suitcase tightly against his chest. 

“Dean,” he said, a little uncertainly. “What - what are you doing here?”

Dean cleared his throat and motioned for him to come closer. “I’m, uh . . . taking a leap of faith, I guess.” 

Dean watched as the grin widened and Castiel opened the car door, sliding in gracefully, stopping only to gently lift the rose bouquet and set it on his lap so he didn’t sit on them. 

“I was hoping you’d come,” Castiel whispered, splaying his fingers over the wrapping fondly. “I thought you might but I wasn’t sure.” 

Dean tapped his fingers against the steering wheel with anxious energy as he drove off down the road again, this time with Castiel beside him. 

“Yeah, well, your roses made pretty damn sure that I had no choice,” Dean said, trying to play it off lightly. 

“You always have a choice,” Castiel murmured, glancing over at him like it was the first time he was seeing his face. “The flowers can only nudge what’s already there, not force you into feeling something you don’t want to feel.”

Dean hummed, clutching at the steering wheel like a lifeline. “You’ve really studied this, uh, flowerwitch magic thing, huh?”

“Haven’t  _ you _ ?”

Dean shook his head slowly. “Not really. I just know that different things can make me or other people feel different things sometimes. I don’t talk about it much.”

He reached over and fumbled with the glove compartment for a moment before pulling out a dandelion that looked almost completely wilted. He should have replaced it today, but this would still work. 

“This one is one of my favorites.” He felt the familiar comforting confidence curl into a ball in his chest before he handed it to Castiel. 

The moment Castiel took the flower, his back straightened and he smiled. 

“Ah, yes. The humble dandelion. It has the ability to grow in the most difficult of terrains, so it’s not surprising that it symbolizes overcoming life’s challenges.” 

Dean blinked. “Really? Is that what that feeling is?”

Castiel nodded and handed it back over to Dean. “Confidence. Hope. Overcoming. However you want to put it.”

Huh. 

Dean was obviously aware that different flowers made people feel different things, but he hadn’t taken much of a note of it before now. He had a few of the feelings memorized in connection to different flowers, but he hadn’t done much in the way of experimentation with them. 

“I’d like to look over your notes sometime, if you’re okay with that.” Dean couldn’t help but get a little excited at the idea of expanding his knowledge on the language of flowers. 

“Of course,” Castiel said as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “We’ll have all the time in the world to compare notes.”

Dean licked his lips. “Well, uh, I don’t have anything on me, Cas. Can I call you Cas?” 

Castiel paused for a moment before nodding with a smile. “I like that. But what do you mean?”

“I mean this was kind of a. . . spur of the moment thing,” Dean said, the adrenaline from before draining from his system. “I didn’t bring any of my stuff or anything and I’m going to need to tell my dad that I can’t help run the garage anymore, and - and I’ll need to tell Jo I’m leaving and -  _ fuck  _ I’m such a moron, I haven’t done  _ anything - _ what was I  _ thinking -”  _

A steady hand rested itself on Dean’s knee, almost immediately comforting him. It wasn’t even a magic thing. . . it was a  _ Cas  _ thing. 

“We have time,” Castiel said comfortingly, “ _ You _ have time. You can spend the night in my new house, and see if you like it, and then you can make some calls in the morning if you feel like staying.” 

Castiel took his hand back off of his knee, and it almost immediately felt cold and empty. 

“Almost like a new life,” Castiel said, and Dean could hear the excitement in his voice, though it seemed he was holding it back for his sake. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. I’ve been planning this for years.” 

“I’ve been planning it for the past few minutes,” Dean said slyly, winking at Cas to try and cover up his freak-out of a few moments ago. “So, yeah. I’m with you. I feel . . . something familiar in you, you know? I think - I’m ready for a change. I’ll just need some adjustment time.” 

“Change is always difficult,” agreed Castiel solemnly.

Dean grinned at him. “I think I’ll actually be closer to my brother’s school up here, too.” He laughed as that thought came to him. Maybe this was going to be simpler than he thought it would be. “Man, it’s going to feel real nice to be able to talk about - you know,  _ flowers  _ \- with someone who understands, Cas.” 

“I know the feeling,” Castiel agreed. “A flower shop, Dean. We can be around them  _ all the time.  _ Won’t that be wonderful?” 

Dean took his eyes off the roadway for a few moments so he could selfishly study Castiel’s face again. 

The flowers weren’t the only thing he was excited to get to be around all the time. 

*

Cas reached down behind the pot of dried, dead flowers just inside the porch, and picked up the keys. He smiled. Just where Anna said they would be.

He jingled them in his hand, turning to the front door - a white-painted, slightly shabby affair with glass panels, that matched the peeling whitewashed porch. That would be one of the things he’d change, Castiel decided. The porch and door would be a brighter colour, not so plain.

Behind him, Dean was gazing around at the dark, hushed street, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He smiled when he saw that Cas was looking back at him, and raised his eyebrows.

“Excited?” he said. Cas nodded, his heart thudding. Part of him wished that he’d kept the valerian sprig from earlier, so that Dean could give it to him as a gift, and he’d be calmed by it. But then he remembered the baby, and how grateful the mother had been, and couldn’t begrudge them. He briefly focused his intent on that valerian sprig, hoping to make it last longer for them, and felt a little tug of magic on the other end.

The key turned in the lock, and Cas blinked back to the present. He slowly pushed the door open, hearing a steady, gentle creak.

“Needs some oil,” Dean said. Cas shook his head gently, putting his hand on the door - feeling the rough wood under his palm.

“That’s the sound of home,” he said. Dean snorted.

“That’s the sound of rusting metal,” he replied, and then gave a cheeky grin in the face of Cas’ mock-stern expression.

“Come on,” Cas said, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him inside, his heart in his throat. His home. This was  _ his  _ home, that his money had bought - that he was going to keep through hard work, selling flowers. It seemed almost too good to be true.

Within, the house was tall, and dark, and gloomy. Cas walked into the centre of the hall, staring around in the dimness, picking out the walls, the threadbare furniture - a light suddenly clicked on, and Cas turned quickly; Dean was standing by a lightswitch, looking proud of himself. Cas felt a little catch in his chest, and turned away again before Dean could see him blush.

“Well, well, well,” Dean said, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak as he stepped out into the middle of the room, too. In the light, Cas took the hallway in properly: it was wide, and there were cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and the yellow wallpaper was peeling away from the plaster.

“It’s not much to look at,” Cas said dubiously. Dean looked over at him, and then smiled.

“Yeah, well,” he said. “Neither are you.”

Cas glared at him, and Dean raised his hands in mock-surrender.

“Okay, okay, you got me, I’m lying. Hey, look,” he said, stepping out and going over to the wall opposite the door. He knocked on it, and then beamed. “Thought so. This isn’t a supporting wall, we could knock it through and widen this room out for the shop. Over there could be the storage room. We could paint the walls blue, lay down some linoleum…”

“A counter top,” Cas said, getting caught up in his excitement. “A big counter, right where you’re standing now. We’ll greet the customers as they come in. There’ll be boards telling everyone what the flowers do. We’ll do free samples for the sceptics -”

“And a Flower Of The Week with a discount! And we can have the shelves organised by the magic they do so it’s easy for people to find what they want. And if they want deliveries…” Dean grinned. “I’ll buy you a moped!”

“Me? Why is the moped for me? I think you look  _ far  _ more the moped type.”

They argued their way affably out through the door - and up the first set of stairs, and through the bedroom and the bathroom there - and then the second set of stairs, and the third - all the way up to the very top, the rooftop garden, where they fell into silence under the impossibly wide sky. The stars were hidden by cloud, but it didn’t seem to matter, somehow. The air was rich and warm.

“It’s a beautiful house,” said Dean. Cas nodded.

“It’s everything I ever wanted,” he said, so sincerely that he could almost feel the petals of white chrysanthemum against his fingertips. He looked over at Dean, and smiled.

When Dean took his hand, it wasn’t flowerwitchery - but it was a certain kind of magic, all of its own.


	7. Chapter 7

Cas blinked awake.

For a long moment, he simply lay there, nestled in his brightly-coloured blankets and pillows, with the canopy of light, vivid muslin curtains covering half his bed. The other half was drenched in glorious, golden sunlight. He yawned, and closed his eyes. Just ten minutes longer…

Downstairs, he could hear the sounds of clattering in the kitchen. His eyes flew open; that meant Dean was awake - before Cas, as usual. He sat up before he could fall asleep again, and stretched, looking around his room blearily for some clothes. Jeans, there - he could wear them one more day before they needed washing, and there was a fresh t-shirt on the pile of clean laundry that he hadn’t got around to putting away in his closet just yet. His whole room was a technicolour mess, a haven of mismatched socks and runaway book piles.

He pulled on his clothes, brushed his teeth, and tried to check his phone, all at the same time; when he finally managed to push open his bedroom door, he was only halfway into his jeans and his phone was in his hand and his toothbrush was in his pocket - but he managed to get things into roughly the right place as he padded down a flight of stairs. His room was only one floor above the kitchen; Dean’s room was above his own, up another flight of stairs. Cas was privately certain that Dean had taken one look at Cas’ mood in the mornings, and decided that an extra staircase to deal with might be pushing it too far. Cas was grateful, and occasionally gave Dean pink hydrangeas to show it - particularly on the days when they’d stayed up impossibly late talking the night before, and Cas was heavy-eyed and especially grumpy the next day.

“Yeah, sure,” Cas heard, as he pushed through the door into the kitchen. Immediately, Cas recognised Dean’s slightly awkward tone, the one he used when he’d prefer not to be speaking at all; he was generally at his most nonverbal in the mornings, and they had most of their conversations through flowers as they set up the shop for the day ahead. Dean, one hand holding his phone to his ear, raised his eyebrows at Cas in greeting when he saw him walk in. He was sitting on the countertop, twitching his feet in a neat rhythm.

“Well, sales have gone up, uh, seventeen percent just in the past week, just ‘cause we put the signs out front like you said. Yeah, I know.” Cas leaned against the counter, waiting for Dean to finish; Dean frowned, reached over, and plucked a toothbrush from behind Cas’ ear. “No, I haven’t seen Sam this week, but he’s coming over for dinner on Friday. Yeah, I’ll let you know, don’t worry. Listen, Dad, I’d better go - stuff to set up - yeah, well.” Dean cleared his throat. “It’s nice to hear your voice too. I’ll call on Saturday. Bye.”

He rang off, and let out a sigh. Cas reached deftly for the vase that was on the kitchen counter, and plucked a day-old orange nasturtium out of the mix they kept ready. Dean smiled as Cas pressed it into his hand, with the tug of magic between them now so familiar that it felt like home. _You did it,_ said the nasturtium. _Victory!_

Dean nodded, and smiled at Cas, reaching for his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled white bloom, and tipped it into Cas’ waiting palm; Cas felt the familiar light sensation of camellia flow into him, _you’re adorable,_ and Dean waved the toothbrush with a grin. Cas sighed and laughed. White camellia was one of Dean’s favourite flowers to give in the mornings, and it always made Cas’ heart twist.

“I need coffee,” he said aloud, something too urgent to try to say via flower - though if he used petunia for _I’m grumpy,_ Dean usually got the message. Today, however, Dean only reached behind him, and smugly produced a cup of steaming coffee from the other side of the counter.

Cas took it with the air of one receiving the holy grail, and took a too-hot sip. Reaching for the vase once more, he picked out a primrose, and tucked it behind Dean’s ear as he used his phone to text. Dean smiled without looking up. _What would I do without you,_ the flower said.

And it was true. In the past three months, Cas had been happier than he ever had been before in his entire life - and a part of that, a _huge_ part of that, was thanks to Dean. Yes, Castiel had bought this place, but it was Dean who was up every morning to oversee the flowers arriving; it was Dean who was the better salesperson, who pushed himself to speak aloud to customers to make their shop a success; it was Dean who had designed their logo - a pair of stylised roses, white and red, above the name of their shop in swirling letters. Both of them had worked hard to make _These Roses Sing_ a success, but Dean always went the extra mile.

Of course, Cas thought, Dean would say exactly the same, but reversed. That was typical, though. They always seemed to see the best in each other.

Another hour passed quickly in the store as they neatened the displays and set out the fresh stock, clearing away any wilting flowers and making sure that the water in each of the buckets was fresh and sweetened with sugar to make the flowers stay vibrant and vivacious all day. Occasionally, they spoke - both of them in flowers, as had become their habit. Cas found that often he, too, preferred the silence; it was more peaceful, and it made him feel closer to Dean to share emotions without having to say them aloud.

When Dean’s alarm sounded, however, it signalled the end of their tranquility. Cas peered over a shelf of blooming forsythia and said out loud,

“Are you ready?”

Dean nodded.

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out strong. Early mornings were for silence, but the daytime was for speaking out loud, and Cas thought that Dean seemed better at it now than he had been at first - better by far. Even though he enjoyed the quiet, Cas couldn’t deny that he still loved the sound of Dean’s voice; loved the way that it was gentle and easy when it was just the two of them, as though Dean were still relaxed, still at ease. “I’ll open the doors and flip the sign.”

“Thank you,” Cas replied, thinking of bluebells and hoping that Dean understood the kind of gratitude that he felt. Sometimes, words felt so unwieldy next to the delicacy of flower magic.

The morning passed at a pleasant pace. Dean and Cas moved around each other in the shop, knowing each other well enough by now that they never bumped into each other - instead, they lifted pots over each other’s heads and slid behind each other in the aisles with perfect grace. They were making excellent returns, this week - thanks, in part, Cas thought, to John Winchester, who had given them the tip to place some of their produce outside in order to get people’s attention.  They’d chosen to leave the free samples that Castiel had thought of that first night out there. At first, they’d been worried about people stealing them - but then Dean had smirked, and reached into one of their vases, and plucked out a blue violet. _I’ll always be honest,_ Cas thought as Dean handed it to him - and it was perfect. No one so far had stolen a single one, though their powerfulness was reduced by the witchery having only a vague ‘whoever picks this up’ focus, rather than specific people. Even still, it worked; they were getting stronger in their magic every day.

At around eleven, a familiar redhead walked into the shop, bearing gifts of coffee and doughnuts from the bakery down the street.

“Anna!” said Dean, loud enough for Cas to hear in the back room, where he was clipping ferns; immediately, he dropped his secateurs and pushed out through the beaded curtain to greet Anna with a smile.

“Morning, Dean. Morning, Cas. The usual?” she said, and Dean slid out from behind the counter to put together Anna’s usual weekly posy of poppies, fir leaves, and crocus.

“How’s the book?” Cas asked her, pulling one of the coffees towards him. He’d made good on his promise to himself to invite Anna over for dinner at his new house, and they’d since become good friends.

“Hopefully all the better, with a little bit of magic,” she replied, smiling at him.

“Did you quit your job yet? You can’t be my mother’s property manager forever if you want to be a writer, An. It takes up all your time.”

Anna’s bright expression faded slightly.

“Mmmm,” she said. “Actually, speaking of your mother - I’ve got some news. She, um - she guessed that I might know where you are.”

At her words, Cas’ stomach gave a lurch. The happy calm of their shop seemed to freeze, as though Dean had just pressed a blue hydrangea into his palm - horrified stillness.

“She knows? You told her?” Cas’ mind was filling with pictures - his mother, arriving here. Telling Cas to clean the place up, make it neat; ordering him to close the shop down and come home with her; telling him she didn’t believe in _magic…_

“No! No,” Anna said hastily. “But - I might have told her a little bit about what you’re doing. She asked me to give you this.” Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, Anna drew out a letter and laid it down on the counter. For a long moment, Cas only stared at it, looking down at the personalised stationery with half his mind still reeling and the other half thinking, _embossed paper? Please._

“Whoa,” Dean said, stepping behind Castiel to lay Anna’s gathered posy on the counter and bending down to find the roll of pink cellophane that she liked best. “Who’s writing to you, the Queen of England?”

Cas tried a smile, but it didn’t entirely work; immediately, Dean’s posture changed, and he placed a hand on Cas’ arm. He said nothing - he never usually did at times of stress, as though he just forgot, as though using words wasn’t his first instinct - but Cas felt his support, and leaned into it.

“My mom,” he explained, and Dean’s expression shifted into understanding. He pulled the envelope closer to Cas across the counter, without picking it up, and raised his eyebrows.

Cas sighed. Dean was right. Waiting would only make it much worse, when he finally did open it.

He picked up the envelope, noting the heaviness - and consequent expensiveness - of the paper, and slit the envelope open in a messy tear that he knew would have had Naomi’s teeth grinding if she could have seen him. Pulling out the contents, he found a single piece of paper and, to his surprise - a flower.

A pink cyclamen.

Cas held it pinched between his fingers for a moment, before lifting up the paper, and starting to read.

_Dear Castiel,_

_I have asked Anna to give this to you and she has promised that she will. You must be wondering why I am writing to you - perhaps wondering if I am going to come and find you, and tear down your door, and demand that you come home. I may rest your mind at ease on that point. I will not seek you out, Castiel._

_Reading your letter was a complete shock to me, and yet I know now that it shouldn’t have been. I only ever wanted the best for you and for Michael, but I failed to notice that the best for each of you was two different things. I tried to make you into one person when you were fundamentally different and if that is the reason why you felt you had to run, as I believe it is, then I would like you to know that I regret my actions._

_You also mentioned your stepfather many times in the letter, Castiel. I believed that he had been good to us after your father’s death - but your letter was something of a wake-up call. I have not been happy. It was never a love match, rather something strategic for both of us. But when I start to lose people I care about, it is time to stop playing games. I know this comes too late, but Richard will be served with divorce papers next week. And I will be running for mayor myself next fall. It is time his policies were questioned._

_And this brings me to the last thing I wanted to say. Anna has told me that you are living with that boy from the garage, and that you call yourselves ‘flowerwitches’. I admit that at first, I was utterly taken aback. But then, Castiel, I remembered that day you gave me the cyclamen in the garden - and the valerian in your letter - and there have been other times, too. I always dismissed it, just as too often I dismissed_ _you_ _. If you tell me that you can do magic with flowers, then I should not be telling you it is not possible; I should be asking you what more I could have done to help, and whether you think there are any more people out there like you, who also need to know that they aren’t alone. I want to consider making it a part of my platform in the fall. I don’t know whether - witches, and such - are protected by the law and you certainly need to be. As mayor, I would have influence and I could use it to legitimise you and people like you, Castiel. I feel I owe you that. More than that, it is the right thing to do, I believe._

_Castiel, I am - sorry. Sorry for the hurt. Sorry that I didn’t see your loneliness. I understand if you do not want me to be a part of your life. If you do feel you can reconnect - and it will be on your terms, without Michael unless you choose, and certainly without Richard - then please call me. My number will be the same._

_With love,_

_Your mother._

Cas held the paper tightly in his hands, not able to believe what he was seeing.

“My mother - gave this to you?” he said to Anna, not looking up. Dean’s hand on his arm squeezed slightly, asking a question.

“She did,” Anna said cautiously. “I wasn’t sure whether or not to pass it on. I figured it was probably full of things you didn’t want to hear, and - you’ve been so happy. But I ended up deciding it wasn’t my business to keep it from you.”

Cas was nodding along, his eyes skimming back over the letter one more time. It was unmistakably his mother’s hand, and her tone of writing - but the words that she was saying were so out of the blue, so incredible.

“Is it bad?” Anna pressed. Cas huffed out a little dry laugh, and looked up at her.

“I can barely believe it’s from her. It’s not bad at all.” Dean’s hand on his arm released, and suddenly clapped him on the back. With a sudden relax in the tension, his voice returned.

“She’s not going to get us closed down?”

“She - she says she won’t try to find us. She says she wants to reconnect, but she won’t do it unless it’s on my terms. She’s breaking up with my stepfather. Dean,” Cas said, turning to face him fully, his throat suddenly tight. “She wants to be mayor, and she wants to use her influence to help make laws - laws to protect people like _us._ ”

Dean’s mouth dropped open and he opened his arms in celebration; Cas leaned into them, hugging him tightly.

“That’s amazing, man,” Dean said, the words rumbling against Cas’ chest. “That’s incredible.”

“I’m so happy for you!” said Anna, and Cas pulled away from the hug so that he could turn back to her, his fondness for her suddenly increased tenfold. “God. I really thought I was bringing bad news into your happy place today.”

“Turns out, you just made it even happier,” Dean said to her, grinning, one of his hands still resting on Cas’ shoulder. “Please, come again.”

“Well, maybe I will,” Anna said, making her tone mock-thoughtful, as though they didn’t all know that she would be back next week, with more coffee and cakes. She reached over, and picked up her little bouquet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Cas said, at the exact same time as Dean. They looked over, and smiled at each other in agreement.

“This one’s on the house,” added Cas. “And come over for dinner on Friday? Dean’s brother is going to be here.”

Anna, beaming from ear to ear, nodded her thanks and made her goodbyes, promising to bring along a batch of her famous profiteroles for dessert - ‘the one thing I can actually cook, and it’s the one thing no one else can’, she always said. On her way out of the door, bell tinkling, she brushed past a blonde girl - who stopped in her tracks, and watched after her as she walked away down the street.

“Dean,” said the girl, putting one hand on her hips, the other one supporting the weight of a large, brown box. “You didn’t tell me you had cute girls coming to this place.” She set the box down on the floor.

“Jo?” Dean said, disbelieving at first, and then stepping out from behind the counter to stride up the length of the shop and sweep her up in a bear hug.

“What the hell?!” Jo laughed. “What, did someone say I was gonna walk in here with a winning lottery ticket or something? I gotta come clean, guys, it’s just plain old me. Oh, and some bits and pieces from your dad, in the box.”

Dean put her down, still beaming, and Cas came over to explain.

“We just received some good news from my mom,” he said. “And then you arrived, and somehow today got even better.”

Jo’s smile widened, and she punched Cas in the arm lightly.

“Good news from your mom? Congrats! I always thought she was a total -” Dean cleared his throat loudly as Jo picked a colourful word - “but if she’s being less of a douche, let’s celebrate!”

“Are you in town for long?” Cas asked, reaching out to a nearby bucket of roses and pulling out a yellow one. He handed it to her, and she smiled as she accepted it - _be happy, friend!,_ it said, the flow of the magic sending the familiar shiver down Cas’ back. Jo had visited once already since they’d been living in the new house, to give them their housewarming gift and to get to know Cas; ever since then, he and Dean had been hoping she’d make the trip back.

“A whole week,” Jo said, her eyes shining. “I’m staying with a friend. So, dinner and drinks every night, yes? Yes?”

“Cas likes board games,” Dean offered, and Jo grinned.

“I suck at board games,” she said. “I’m totally in. Thursday?”

“If you come Friday,” Cas offered, “then Anna will be here.”

“Anna - _oh,_ redhead? You know her?” Jo wiggled her eyebrows. “I might just take you up on that. I call being on her team when we play Clue.”

“There are no teams in Clue,” Cas pointed out.

“There are when I’m playing,” Jo said. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I didn’t eat lunch yet…”

“There’s a bakery down the street,” Dean told her. “Does good sandwiches. And get a jelly doughnut.” Jo saluted him, and began to back out of the shop, careful not to trip over the box she’d brought on her way out.

“Any progress on finding me a job here, yet, by the way?”

Dean and Cas looked at each other for a long moment, before Cas turned back to face her.

“How do you feel about mopeds?” he said.

*

That night, they both climbed up the long flights of stairs, all the way up to their rooftop garden. When they’d first arrived, the place had looked sparse, only a couple of metal chairs to grace its cement floor; now, under an awning, there were four generously-cushioned loungers, a barbecue, and a coffee table - and surrounding them, filling up every possible inch, was greenery. It was here that they grew some of their stock - the rarer flowers that only bloomed at certain times, and yet which seemed to grow contentedly out of season under Dean and Cas’ careful hands.

At the far end of the garden, disguised by the overflowing leaves of the shrubs - hidden from view, a kind of secret place - there was a little space, perfect for laying out a blanket and some cushions, and sitting back and watching the stars.

Cas walked up the stairs that night and out into the open air, Dean behind him, with his heart beating harder than usual. In his pocket, he was used to carrying a few spare blooms, usually wasted or ragged ones from their stock, and he used them to talk with Dean throughout the day - and tonight, he had a particular flower in there.

A deep, red rose.

In actual fact, he’d picked up red roses several times over the course of the past few weeks, wondering if he’d have the courage to hand one to Dean. The relationship between them was so relaxed and easy that in a way, Cas never wanted it to change - and yet he couldn’t help it; couldn’t help the way his eyes were irresistibly drawn to Dean, his smile, his freckles, his eyes, his laugh - he loved all of it. He wanted all of it, in his life, for as long as he possibly could. Not in an iris kind of way, but in a deep, red rose kind of way.

He could only hope that Dean felt the same. But there was no way to be certain, and that was what had made Cas crumple all the previous roses in his pocket, not brave enough to try handing them over. Because if Dean didn’t feel the same, then everything would be changed - everything would be completely ruined, in fact. How could they go on with their easy relationship, if suddenly the imbalance in how important they were to each other was revealed?

Cas picked up half of the pile of blankets and cushions stacked up under the awning to keep them dry in case of rain - though there wasn’t much chance of that tonight, since the sky was clear and the air was beautifully balmy and cool. He heard Dean pick up the other half of the stack, and together they pushed through their miniature jungle, until they reached the little square of space where they usually made their nest, under the open sky.

They set it up in comfortable silence - or rather, Dean seemed comfortable, but Cas had a red rose burning a hole in his pocket and couldn’t ease into the familiarity nearly so well with it there. He wished there were a way of just _knowing._ He wished, more than anything, that feeling things and wanting things wasn’t such a leap in the dark.

They lay down, side by side, on the cushions, angled slightly so that their shoulders just barely touched. Cas took a deep breath, and tried to let it out slowly, calmingly. Above him, the stars glittered and winked, seeming to be sometimes there, sometimes not. It was impossible to be _sure_ , Cas thought, smelling the jasmine and oregano on the air, always the two strongest scents at this end of the garden.

Suddenly, Cas felt a hand bat up against the back of his own clenched fist. He turned his head sideways to see Dean looking at him, his face concerned; in his hand, Cas saw, looking down, was a sprig of valerian. He looked up into Dean’s eyes, and then gently accepted it. The feeling of warmth that came from Dean’s magic comforted him as much as the flowers themselves.

“Talk to me,” Dean said, and Cas let out a breath. Dean was so close, his lips slightly parted, his gaze flickering over Cas’ face, as though trying to find an answer written in his lipline that he couldn’t find in his eyes. It made it much harder, Cas thought dryly, to breathe normally, when Dean did that.

“I’m - I’m just glad that you’re here,” Cas said. He reached into his pocket - his fingers grazed the petals of the red rose - and he pushed past it, reaching for the primrose that he knew was beneath. He handed it over, smiling slightly. _I don’t know what I would do without you._

Maybe one day, Cas thought, he’d have to find out. If Dean started dating here in the city, if he found someone, if he moved out - or, worse, if he moved them _into_ the house -

Cas shuddered.

“That’s not it,” Dean said, and Cas could hear his own tension making Dean nervous, making him not want to talk. “There’s something wrong.”

Cas shook his head, on instinct - and then, slowly, nodded it.

“Not - wrong, exactly,” he said. “But - there is something on my mind. It’s complicated, though.”

Dean was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, he said,

“Me too, actually.”

Cas went still. Was this the moment when Dean told him that he was moving out, that he needed his own space? Or that he was going back home to work for his father? Or -

“It’s nothing bad. Well, I mean - it’s complicated. But it’s nothing I _know_ is bad,” Dean said, and Cas tried to stop creating nightmare scenarios. He nodded.

“Yes,” he said, and then tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t. Yes. Yes, it was complicated. Yes, it _might_ be bad, but it might also not. _Yes._

“Maybe it’d be easier - with a flower?” Dean said. “I have one with me. Do you..?”

Cas swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to deny the red rose in his pocket, pretend that he had nothing - but he didn’t want to lie to Dean, to have that weight between them. Throat too tight with nerves to speak, he nodded.

Dean sat up, and Cas followed his lead. They swung their legs so that they were sat facing opposite each other, looking earnestly into each other’s eyes - both waiting, in some way, Cas thought, for the punchline, the laugh, the eye-roll from the other, and not seeing it. He felt a little spark of courage in his chest. Being with Dean like this made him feel braver. They were sitting close to each other, close enough to make Cas’ heart sigh.

“Where’s your flower?” Dean asked.

“In my pocket.”

“Me, too. Close your eyes, I don’t want you to see before I give it to you.”

Cas closed his eyes, and then said,

“You close your eyes, too.”

“They’re shut.”

Cas reached into his pocket, and knew the red rose immediately - by the incredible softness of its petals, and by the low, warm singing of _I love you_ that he understood through the touch. He pulled it out, careful not to rip the petals, and made sure that it was unfolded nicely and not crumpled by feel, keeping his eyes closed.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Do you have yours?”

“Yes,” Cas said. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

There was a long moment of silence. This was it, Cas knew. If everything went terribly, he would build a time machine and he would come back to this exact moment, and he would stand up and throw the red rose off the top of the rooftop garden before Dean ever had a chance to see it. It was tempting to just do that now, and save himself the trouble of grappling with intertemporal physics.

A light breeze blew in, bringing with it the scent of tiger lily and lavender from the other end of the roof. Cas swallowed. _Be brave,_ he thought to himself. _Imagine you’re holding a - a flower - whichever one makes you brave, or - or Dean’s hand. Imagine you’re holding Dean’s hand._

“You give me yours. I’ll give you mine at the same time. Okay?” Dean said. Cas nodded, and then remembered that Dean couldn’t see him, and spoke instead.

“Yes. Should we open our eyes?”

Dean seemed to hesitate.

“No,” he said, roughly. “Just - don’t look. Just feel.”

“On three?”

“On three,” Dean agreed.

“One,” Cas said.

“Two,” Dean said.

“ _Three,_ ” they both said, together. Cas pushed forward his red rose, only having to move a little way forward before meeting the resistance of Dean’s hands, Dean’s flower - for a moment, the two blooms pressed against each other, and Cas was aware of nothing but his own deep red.

And then his fingertip shifted, and immediately, overwhelmingly, he felt a race of feeling that he recognised - that he knew, remembered in the core of his very heart, in his _bones,_ from ten years before. It was a cool fire - a white hot, burning feeling, doubled a hundredfold since the last time he’d felt it, so powerful and intense that it stole Cas’ breath out his lungs, soared into his chest on wings of flame, opened up his heart and split it wide open into a new, terrifying, glorious depth of feeling - it was the white rose, the white rose that Dean had given him before, and it was tearing him in half - and it sounded like _it was nice to meet you,_ but more, so much _more -_

And then, thrumming under the white like a heavy bass drum, came a second feeling. A passion that didn’t move so fast, but ran deeper, felt as though it could last for a thousand years or longer - red rose, a red rose feeling of unsurpassable _I love you_ that only scored Cas’ heart down further, only weighed heavier, only felt even better and even more utterly unbearable. Caught between Dean’s hand and Cas’, the red rose became a gift to them both, as did the white. The power of the magic was unbelievably strong; his heart groaned -

And then. At last, when Cas thought he was at breaking point, there came the twining; the cool fire and the hot, threading into each other - neatly sealing together the halves of the heart they had just almost torn apart. White over red, red over white, over and over, a lacing, a binding - a bond. A bond more profound that any Castiel had ever felt, or knew he ever would feel again. _Better together,_ sang the roses, high sweet white and low steady red. _Better together._

 **_Better together_ ** _._

Cas opened his eyes, his hands shaking, his breath coming hard - and when he looked over to Dean, he saw a single tear on his cheek, and knew that he’d felt it, too.

Trying to calm his frantic heart, and equally never wanting the sensation to end, Cas couldn’t summon the words to speak - didn’t need to, because although the first wave had rolled over him, the pair of roses in their hands still spoke everything he could think of to say, and more.

He looked down at the blooms, pressed together in their palms, and breathed.

Stillness settled.

“You - you got your mother’s rose,” Cas said. “The one from before.”

Dean nodded, obviously also struggling to regain some normality.

“Jo brought it in a box today. From Dad.”

Cas smiled.

“I have a lot to thank that rose for.” He knew it, now - now that he was older, and had seen more of the world. It wasn’t only _nice to meet you,_ the flower in Dean’s palm. It was a thornless white rose: it was pure love, at first sight. And in Cas’ palm, there was the red rose, the deeper and longer-lasting love that came through knowing, and liking, and caring. And when they intertwined…

Cas could still feel the flower-feeling in his heart, the lacework. It felt like being free, and coming home, both at the same time. It felt like himself, his _true_ self, and like Dean.

“Better together,” Cas said aloud, and Dean smiled.

“Better together,” he agreed.

Cas leaned in a little nearer - still shy, somehow, even when everything was known between them, even when there was no reason to fear. They both knew it all, and even still, both of them took their time, moving closer to each other in slow degrees. They smiled a little with every inch they took; when they were nose to nose, Cas tilted his head just slightly left. Dean leaned in a little closer, and ever-so-gently, with so much care, they kissed...

After the flowers’ song, the press of their lips was a simplicity to run into, a physicality that was easy to understand. Cas brought up his free hand and cupped Dean’s cheek, feeling a thrill when Dean leaned into it, kissed him a little harder.

The wind brought scents of jasmine, and oregano, and tiger lily, carried them around the rooftop in a whirl. And they kissed, and kissed - let their lips move, wordless, because they had never needed words, in truth. And held gently in their witch hands were the flowers - one that was the start, and one that would see them through, right to the very end. The white, and the red.

Dean and Cas kissed on - and, between them, the roses sang.

 

 


End file.
